


Side Effects

by MissDavis



Series: Breakable Not Broken [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Sherlock Holmes, Paralysis, can be read as a standalone, fyi the nipple ring finally gets used in chapter 10, still no cure though sorry!, way less angst and crying than the first one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2019-08-19 07:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Life is a lot better for Sherlock and John than it was a year ago. Yes, John still can't walk and Sherlock is still on antidepressants, but they're married now, and almost everything else is back to their version of normal. They have a dog. Sherlock's solving cases again. But when Moriarty learns of their marriage, he escapes from prison and takes it upon himself to make their lives miserable. Is Sherlock really up to the challenge of catching a criminal whose only goal is to make sure that he and John don't live happily ever after?Part of a series but can be read on its own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), but it is not absolutely necessary to have read that story, which is approximately 120K of men crying. All you need to know is that John was injured in an accident while on a case and is now paralyzed from the waist down. By the end of the fic, Sherlock and John are married and have a dog (which I am regretting a bit because I keep having to remember to include the dog). 
> 
> Thank you to [Iriswallpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper), [SherlocksSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister) and [Standbygo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo) for agreeing to beta and/or Britpick this story for me. Also thanks to [Aquabelacqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabelacqua/pseuds/aquabelacqua) and [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl) for looking over this first chapter at only a moment's notice! All mistakes that remain are mine.
> 
> This will probably be a fairly long fic. I plan to update as regularly as I can, but I will be taking the month of December off from it so I can participate in a monthlong ficlet challenge.

Sherlock emerged from the shower to discover that in his absence the dog had taken over his side of the bed, but since John was already up for the day, he had little incentive to crawl back under the covers anyway. He hung his dressing gown on its hook behind the door and picked up an old tennis ball that Stone had dropped in the middle of the floor, tossing it onto the bed so it wouldn't be in the way. "Don't drool on my pillow," he said. "John just changed the sheets." 

He found John sitting at the kitchen table, his wheelchair tipped upside down next to him. Instead of making breakfast, he'd taken the front casters off his chair and was in the process of cleaning them, leaving a small mound of hair, fur and other debris on a piece of newspaper he'd spread on the table. _Oh well. Ammunition for the next time he tries to tell me only edible items belong in the kitchen._

"Morning, love." John smiled up at him and Sherlock leaned down for a quick kiss. "You'll have to reheat the kettle if you want a cuppa. And I'll take a second one while you're at it."

"All right." Sherlock stepped around John so he could reach the kettle where it sat on the worktop. "Is there any food?"

"Toast? I think we still have some bread. Or you can pop downstairs to grab something."

Sherlock sighed and opened the fridge-freezer to see if he could find anything more appealing than toast. Eggs seemed like too much work. Even after a shower he was still too sleepy to want to do anything other than flop onto the sofa and wait for someone to bring him something to eat. He closed the fridge door. _Damn meds._ Not that he'd ever been inclined to cook, especially first thing in the morning. John, on the other hand, always seemed to think mornings were a good time to get things done. Sherlock scowled and grabbed an orange from the bowl next to the sink before sitting down across from him at the table. "Aren't you supposed to be at yoga right now?"

"Well, it would be over by now anyway, but I skipped it." John wiped a bit of oily residue onto a piece of kitchen roll and reached out to pull his wheelchair closer so he could reattach the small wheels. "I got enough of a workout in the game last night."

"Mm." Sherlock wouldn't know—he hadn't gone to more than a handful of John's basketball games since he'd joined the wheelchair league, nearly a year ago now. Watching him play still stirred up too many feelings and fears that Sherlock would rather ignore.

He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. Nothing important since last night: a few hundred new hits on John's latest blog post, no new activity on his own. Two missed calls from Mycroft, followed by a text that read simply, "Call me." _Unlikely._ Nothing Mycroft had to say could possibly be important enough to be discussed this early in the morning. He dropped the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to peeling the orange. He hadn't managed more than half of it before he was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs to the flat. "Oh, no."

"What?" John looked up in alarm.

Sherlock crooked his head toward the sitting room just as they heard a single sharp rap on the door. _Mycroft._ "Why on earth would he come here so early?"

John shrugged. "Probably because neither one of us returned his calls."

"He phoned you, too?"

"Mm-hmm. A couple of times. I turned off my ringer. I reckoned he was your problem to deal with."

"He's your family now, too."

"Is he? All right, then." John turned his head toward the door and shouted. "It's open. Come on in."

Sherlock scrambled up from his seat. "Why would you do that?"

"Well, he's family now, and you weren't about to let him in."

Stone rushed out of the bedroom and ran past Sherlock, eager to greet whoever was at the door, even Mycroft. Sherlock heard the door open and close, and the tap of Mycroft's umbrella as he rested it against the wall. "Hello, Gladstone."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the use of the dog's full name. He straightened the fall of his jacket and stalked across the room to stand in the kitchen doorway. "Go away."

Mycroft didn't respond. He shooed Stone out of the way and turned to inspect the doorknob as if he had never seen such a thing before. "You need to get a better lock for this door and start using it."

"Why? The door to the street is always locked."

Mycroft twisted the small button in the door handle and turned around to face Sherlock. "I assume the lift came equipped with keys to restrict access. Give one to John and one to Mrs. Hudson and keep it locked at all times."

"Why are you suddenly so concerned with our flat's security?"

"I've always been concerned about you, little brother. And thank you, I would like a cup of tea." The kettle clicked off, punctuating Mycroft's statement.

Sherlock frowned and then turned his back on Mycroft, retreating into the kitchen to attend to the tea. After a moment's consideration he did add a third cup, because placating Mycroft would probably get him to leave faster than arguing with him. _He'll have to settle for a mug, though. I'm not getting the teapot and saucers out just for him._ "Why are you here?" he asked, as Mycroft stepped into the kitchen.

"If you want to keep me away, you should respond to my texts and phone calls."

"I was asleep! It's not even nine in the morning." He turned around and leaned against the worktop so he could glare at Mycroft.

"And yet you've had time to shower, and John's had time to make a significant contribution to the disaster that is your kitchen table." Mycroft sniffed. "Congratulations, John. You've now lived with my brother long enough that you've completely abandoned your own standards of kitchen cleanliness and adopted his."

"Bugger off, Mycroft. If I don't clean the hair out regularly the wheels get gummed up and don't move smoothly." John didn't even look up from what he was doing—over the years he'd learned to ignore Mycroft almost as effectively as Sherlock did.

"Yes, and the kitchen table is, of course, the obvious place to undertake such an endeavour." Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "I was going to accuse Sherlock and Gladstone of causing most of the problem but it looks like your hair is well-represented in that tangled mess as well, John. There are as many blond strands as brunette."

"My hair's not long enough to get twisted around the axles like that." 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you haven't looked in a mirror lately."

"I know what my own hair looks like." John wiped his fingers off again and then ran a hand through his hair, which was now long enough that he needed to comb it back from his forehead and style it every morning.

"Well." Mycroft shifted his gaze briefly to Sherlock. "As long of the two of you are happy with it."

John gave Mycroft a glare and Sherlock added his own, hoping Mycroft would keep his mouth shut, though he doubtless could read from Sherlock's posture that he vastly preferred the shorter, more natural hairstyle John had always had before. A year ago he would've told John that he didn't like it, but since he'd been injured John had become much more insecure about his appearance, so Sherlock hadn't mentioned it. He'd have to get it cut eventually.

Sherlock turned his back on them so he could finish making the tea. "Ignore him, John. He just wishes he had enough hair to get tangled in anything."

John gave a half-hearted laugh. "My hair's more grey than blond these days." He poked at the small mass that sat on the table. "Those blond strands are probably Mary's hair. She and Sharon switched schedules so she's in my office a lot now."

"Who's Mary?" Mycroft stepped closer to the table, tone suddenly more serious than the question seemed to warrant.

"One of the nurses at work."

"Shouldn't you know that, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked him. "I thought you kept tabs on everything we do and who we do it with."

"I admit I have become lax in my tab-keeping." Mycroft sighed, pulling out the chair Sherlock had been using earlier so he could sit down across from John. "I rather thought it had become your job, Sherlock. Isn't that what a husband is supposed to do? Keep track of everything your spouse does in his free time?"

"It's hardly free time," John said. "And don't give him any ideas."

"What's this Mary person's last name?" Mycroft asked.

"Are you kidding me?" John waved the Allen key he'd been using on the casters toward Mycroft. "Are you actually going to check up on her? She's worked at the clinic almost as long as I have."

"I'm going to check up on everyone you work with." He nodded at Sherlock. "Every person either of you has talked to in recent memory. There's a major security issue and the two of you are at the heart of it. Or rather, Sherlock is, and you're the lucky man who gets pulled into all of his troubles." Mycroft didn't even try to make the grin he gave John look remotely real.

Sherlock added a splash of milk to Mycroft's tea and turned around, holding the mug in front of himself. Mycroft beckoned for him to bring it to him, and after a moment's hesitation, Sherlock did. He set the mug on the table in front of Mycroft and put his hands on his hips. "All right, enough with the vaguely threatening statements. What's going on?"

Mycroft pulled the mug slightly closer to himself and settled both hands around it, as if he were cold, though the temperature in the flat was quite pleasant. "Do the two of you remember a Mr. James Moriarty?"

"Of course." The tension that had been building in Sherlock's chest let go. _Just another criminal, not a real threat._ He handed John his tea, then leaned back against the worktop to drink his own, since Mycroft and John were occupying the only chairs at the table.

John wrinkled his nose, returning his attention to tightening the bolts on his casters. "The one who called himself a consulting criminal?"

"The very one."

"I thought he was supposed to be locked up forever in that secret prison I'm not supposed to know about."

Mycroft pursed his lips in disapproval before replying. "He was. He escaped." He took a sip of tea, then set the mug back on the table. If he'd been served it with a proper cup and saucer, Sherlock was sure it would've rattled as he put it down.

 _Is he legitimately concerned about Moriarty's escape or is he just trying to manipulate me and John so he can play his favourite role of protective big brother?_ From what Sherlock recalled, Moriarty had been an annoyance but little else, more full of his own cleverness than anything. Yes, he'd killed a number of people, but once they'd figured out who was behind the deaths, he'd been relatively easy to track down and imprison, especially given his tendency to want to show off his crimes. 

Mycroft continued. "He maimed two guards, then killed another inmate who had helped him orchestrate the escape."

"Well. That certainly seems like a failure of security on your part, big brother." Sherlock drained his mug and thumped it down onto the worktop, then grabbed his orange away from where it sat in front of Mycroft. "Shouldn't you be off trying to fix your mistakes, instead of wasting all of our time here?"

Mycroft didn't rise to Sherlock's taunting, which made almost as much of an impression on Sherlock as his next words. "If you'll recall, before we locked him up, Moriarty was targeting you, Sherlock. Playing a game, trying to entice you, and when he attempted to kidnap John we speculated it was to remove him from the picture so he would have you to himself."

Sherlock grinned, glancing at John. "Well, he's a bit late for that, now. Or did you forget to mention to him that we're married?"

"He's aware." Mycroft drummed his fingers in turn against the handle of his mug, then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull out his phone. "Perhaps this will give you an idea of the magnitude of his obsession with you." He tapped the phone screen a few times, then turned it so Sherlock and John could both see. "This is a photo of Moriarty's cell a week before he managed his escape." The walls of the cell were covered in writing, just one word, repeated in large capital letters dozens of times: _Sherlock_.

John looked up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, that's a bit disturbing." He turned back to Mycroft. "Even more disturbing is that you let him escape after he did that. You should have increased his supervision."

Mycroft's jaw clenched. "Yes. Thank you for that advice. Believe me, there have been repercussions for everyone whose actions or lack thereof enabled his escape."

Sherlock let his half-peeled orange roll back onto the table and plucked Mycroft's phone from his hand so he could study the photo of Moriarty's cell more closely. He traced his fingernail over one of the scrawled iterations of his name. "Why would his obsession with me surface again now? He's been locked up for over five years."

John snickered. "Guess he gave up on meeting someone special in prison."

Sherlock snorted and Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Very funny. Unfortunately, he did meet someone. A staff member who was charmed enough by his demeanour that she allowed him access to the internet."

"And?"

"And, somehow, he stumbled across a video that had been uploaded to YouTube." Mycroft tipped his head and stared at Sherlock as if waiting for him to deduce what he was talking about.

Sherlock blinked at him, but for once John was a step ahead. "The video of Sherlock proposing to me in Angelo's last summer."

"Exactly that." Mycroft returned both his hands to his mug of tea, still not drinking it.

Sherlock pushed Mycroft's phone back across the table. He let his mind drift away in thought for a moment, then decided it wasn't worth his time. If Mycroft had let Moriarty escape, then Mycroft could use his own resources to capture him again. "Thank you for stopping by, Mycroft. I'll be sure to let you know should a small, annoying Irishman show up at my door and try to woo me away from John."

That prompted a giggle from John, exactly as Sherlock had intended. Mycroft turned his disapproving gaze on John. "You both need to take this seriously."

"Oh, we will. We will." John finished tightening the second caster on his chair and gave it a flick to set it spinning. "Do you think I should keep my gun on me at all times or can I take it off when we go to bed?"

"You definitely need to wear it to bed." Sherlock stepped away from the table so he could lean back against the worktop again. He raised his eyebrows at Mycroft, giving him a closed-mouth grin. "See? Everything's under control. John has a gun." He let his smile slip into something slightly more real and Mycroft groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Please. Your honeymoon has been over for quite a while now. Time to get back to the real world." He pulled out a small notebook from the same pocket that held his phone—Sherlock wondered if he'd ever realise it was possible to make notes on a phone, as well. He flipped to the middle of the notebook and drew his finger down the page, which he'd apparently filled out ahead of time. "There will be a level three monitoring of your flat to begin with. If need be, we can increase it from there. The next step would be to have a guard stationed in this building at all times."

"That will not be necessary," John said.

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I don't know. I think Mrs. Hudson would enjoy that. Let's ask her, shall we?" He twirled a finger toward the sitting room, where he could hear the hum of the lift moving.

Stone heard the whir of the motor as well, and was ready at the lift doors when they folded open a few seconds later. Mrs. Hudson's voice carried through the flat. "Oh, be careful, Stony, you'll tear my tights."

"Stony?" Mycroft shook his head in disgust.

"Most people like to use nicknames for their pets, Mycroft." John leaned to the side so he could grab his wheelchair and flip it upright once more. The t-shirt he wore beneath his open dressing gown pulled tight across his front as he moved, outlining the muscles in his chest as well as the ring that hung from his left nipple. Sherlock dragged his eyes away from the sight to catch Mycroft's reaction, and was not disappointed—his brother's eyes widened for a split second before he looked down at his mug and hastily gulped the remaining tea. John didn't seem to notice how distracting he was as he swung himself into his chair. "Gladstone's a bit of a mouthful. Stone's easier, but animals usually respond better to names that end in an '–ie' sound. So, Stony."

"Yes." Sherlock took a step to the side to allow John room to move past him. "Now come on, Mykie. I'll see you to the door." He turned his back on Mycroft's glare and followed John into the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson was still being enthusiastically welcomed by Stone. She tried to push him away so she could walk further into the room, but he seemed even more persistent than usual in his need to wag his tail and sniff at her pockets. "Oh, Sherlock, John, you're both up. I thought I heard voices. I hope you don't need me to take Stony out this afternoon, because I'm going shopping for a dress for Maxine Allen's granddaughter's bat mitzvah." 

"No, we'll be home all day today unless Sherlock has a case he hasn't told me about." John reached down and grabbed Stone by the collar before he could knock Mrs. Hudson off her feet.

"Oh! I almost forgot why I came up here!" Mrs. Hudson took a second to peer into the mirror over the mantel and pat her hair into position, then reached into the pocket of her cardigan. "You've had a delivery, Sherlock. It came very early—I was still in my nightie."

Sherlock glanced at the small package she held out to him: _cardboard box thoroughly wrapped in packing tape, gift from a fan, obviously. Probably another magnifying glass._ Not a very expensive one, either, judging by the weight he felt as he took the box from her and tossed it onto the desk. Stone followed the motion with his whole head, then pulled free from John's grip and dashed past Sherlock to the desk, scrabbling as if his stubby little legs would allow him to reach the top of it.

Sherlock frowned, then grabbed the dog by the collar and hauled him away from the desk; John reached out to take control of him again, this time lifting him onto his lap so he couldn't escape. "Maybe you should open it now."

"Yes." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, who had joined them in a loose circle around the desk, and swallowed back a brief trickle of worry. _Just some memento from a fan. Probably a chocolate bar or packet of sweets that Stone can smell._ He fished a pocket knife from the pencil holder on the desk, then picked up the package. Stone gave a whine from his position on John's lap and John murmured his name, scratching him behind the ears to soothe him.

It took several passes with the knife to cut away all the tape that secured the package shut. Inside was a smaller box, perhaps six inches in length and half that in width, covered in bright red gift wrap and cushioned in a nest of shredded paper. A folded note sat atop it. Sherlock picked it up and read the handwritten text aloud. " _My Dear Sherlock, I would've got you rings sooner, but you never asked. JM x_ "

"Moriarty," John said.

"Indeed." Sherlock tore away the wrapping paper, ignoring Mycroft's groan of dismay as he destroyed what could possibly be forensic evidence.

Beside him, Mrs. Hudson shrieked a dainty scream and John let go of Gladstone so he could put a steadying hand on her elbow. "Jesus Christ," John breathed. "Those are—"

"Rings," Sherlock confirmed, and lifted from the box a sealed plastic bag— _Tesco brand, sandwich-size, firmly zipped closed but Gladstone could still get the scent through it._ Inside the bag were two wedding bands, their plain gold grown dull with age, each still attached to a severed, blood-spattered finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most important end note: For the backstory on John's nipple ring, please see the last chapter of [Breaking Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733127/chapters/20021335). 
> 
> If you haven't read [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), then I should also mention that Sherlock reluctantly goes on anti-depressants in that fic, after Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade convince him that he can't really help John recover if he himself is unable to function. 
> 
> Other end notes like plot and stuff: Moriarty was never mentioned in this series up until now. My thinking is that in this universe, Sherlock and John got together very soon after meeting. Moriarty did attempt to entice Sherlock into playing games with people's lives on the line, but he was caught, arrested and imprisoned after attempting to kidnap John—the infamous pool scene would never have occurred.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I spent most of December writing [Christmas ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808971/chapters/39454312), so I don't expect to be this slow with every chapter!

"Oh, Sherlock, you can't keep those awful things! Throw them in the bin." Mrs. Hudson stood behind John and the dog, one hand hovering near her mouth as if she'd never seen anything worse than a couple of severed fingers with barely any blood on them. She was quite the actress, when she chose to be.

"I will not throw them in the bin." Sherlock waved the zippered plastic bag in the air a bit so the fingers slid back and forth against each other. "I need to examine them."

"You need to give them to me." Mycroft put one hand out as if he expected Sherlock to hand the bag over to him right then and there.

"No. They're mine." 

"They most certainly are not." Mycroft tried to reach for the bag, but Sherlock put it behind his back and turned slightly, angling his body to keep Mycroft away without actually touching him. 

"Moriarty sent them to me, so they're mine. Not yours."

"They are evidence of a crime, potentially murder."

"And the last time I checked, you didn't work for the police any more than I do. Shall I call Lestrade to come get them, see if Scotland Yard can do a better analysis than I can? Maybe they can call Anderson in for a shift."

"I have access to far more resources than you or Scotland Yard, Sherlock. My people will be able to identify the unfortunate former owners much more quickly."

"No." Sherlock double-checked the seal on the plastic bag and then slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket. 

Mycroft grimaced at him and Mrs. Hudson chastised him. "Oh, Sherlock, have some sense. What if that bag springs a leak?"

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind grabbing Stone's lead off the hook and taking him downstairs for a little while?" John intervened, for which Sherlock was immensely grateful. He didn't need to deal with Mrs. Hudson's wittering concern when he had far more important things to attend to.

John saw Stone and Mrs. Hudson to the lift and then returned with more suggestions. "Give Mycroft copies of the fingerprints and he can see if he can find a match in his databases while you do whatever you want to do with them here. Carefully, away from any food."

"Fine." Sherlock curled his lip but acknowledged that John's idea was sound. He turned to Mycroft. "I will email a copy of the fingerprints to you. Now leave."

"I'll want DNA samples, too," Mycroft said. "Give me a clipping from each fingernail."

"I can do better than that." Sherlock pulled the bag from his pocket and rummaged around on the desk until he found a pair of small, sharp scissors. "John, grab a couple of those specimen jars from my shelf in the kitchen, would you?"

John did as he asked and Sherlock clipped a scrap of flesh from the base of each finger, dropping them into the jars. He held them out to Mycroft, who of course recoiled at the offer. 

"Children." John shook his head, then grabbed the jars from Sherlock's hand. He went back into the kitchen and returned a moment later, a brown paper bag on his lap. He held it out to Mycroft. "There. Double-bagged. No chance of any unwelcome fluids getting on your suit, Mycroft. And the two of you can race to be the first to find out who the fingers belonged to. Good luck!"

Mycroft attempted a sneer but failed as he accepted the bag from John, then proceeded to start another lecture about what security measures he thought they should take. Sherlock tuned him out. He needed to clear a spot on the kitchen table so he could have both his chemistry equipment and laptop by his side while he examined the fingers and rings, and listening to Mycroft argue with John about not leaving the flat was boring. 

Mycroft finally left, and John pottered about for a few minutes, making breakfast, which Sherlock declined; his interest in food had vanished now that he had a case in front of him. He was able to immerse himself enough that he was surprised when John disappeared for a while only to reappear, fully dressed and wearing his coat, with Stone on his lead and sitting obediently at his side.

"All right, we're going to the park. Need anything while we're out?"

Sherlock waved his hand. It would be easier to examine the fingers without Stone trying to climb onto his lap to eat the evidence. _Have I really not experimented on any body parts since we got a dog?_ He thought back. Not any fresh ones, at least. "Take your time. It's hard to work with him sniffing around the whole time."

"What, you're not going to be like your brother and tell me it's too dangerous to go outside, that I should just open the front door and let Stone piss on the pavement?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Mycroft said the word 'piss'?" 

John chuckled. "No, he said 'relieve himself'." He tugged at the lead and Stone stood up, then trotted toward the door, out of Sherlock's sight. "No, don't eat those boots," John said, and pulled at the lead again until Stone came back to his side.

Sherlock grinned. "If Moriarty is stalking you, that ferocious beast there will protect you." 

"Right." John gave Stone a scratch on the head. "And if that doesn't work—" He flicked open his coat to reveal his gun nestled against his ribs in its holster, which had been completely hidden with the coat closed.

Sherlock's grin expanded. He didn't really think Moriarty was likely to try to cause any harm. If he'd really wanted to hurt them he could have done so before they even learned he had escaped, instead of taking the time to send such a bizarre package. _But if he does come after us, I like the odds of John and his gun._

When John and Stone were gone, Sherlock was once more able to lose himself in his study. He did a quick examination of the rings themselves: a matched pair, nearly the same size, though based on the fingers— _one quite hairy, one with a longer, carefully-shaped nail_ —they belonged to a man and a woman. Moriarty hadn't even bothered to find a same-sex couple to maim or possibly slaughter. "He's either sloppy or lazy," Sherlock said. It took him a moment to remember that there was no one else in the flat to hear him. Which was probably for the best, since John would doubtless say he was a bit not good to critique a criminal's technique like that.

He continued his inspection of the rings: 14 carat gold, not particularly high end but not inexpensive, either. No names or initials inside, just a date engraved on each one: 18-6-2011. Wedding date, obviously; it should have been helpful but wasn't. June was the most popular month for weddings. Only married five years, with an anniversary coming up next month. So the couple might be fairly young; the average age for marriage in England was 32 for men and 30 for women. He and John of course skewed higher than that average. _Irrelevant._ He made himself re-focus on the case in front of him. The fingers did appear to belong to a couple under forty: the skin was smooth, with no visible wrinkles or age spots, though the ring on the man's finger appeared to have been sized before he'd gained weight. Sherlock could see a smooth indentation on the woman's finger that indicated another ring had been removed: of course, an engagement ring. Moriarty had made at least that much effort to make the illusion match Sherlock and John. Or perhaps she'd worn a diamond big enough to make it worth stealing. 

The gold of the rings was generic enough that he didn't waste his time trying to track down the jeweller who might have sold them. Instead, he moved on to the fingers themselves, which promised to yield significantly more data.

First impressions: the cuts to remove the fingers had been made fairly cleanly, but not by a surgeon's scalpel: a large kitchen knife seemed a more likely tool. And to make cuts that low on the fingers, below the rings.... Sherlock flexed his own hand, looking at where his wedding band sat. Yes, a large knife would have probably taken off at least the pinky and middle fingers, as well. He should check local hospitals to see if anyone had shown up missing most of a hand recently, on the off-chance that Moriarty had let his victims survive and go free. He grabbed his laptop and used John's credentials to log in to as many hospital databases as he could. Nothing. So. Moriarty had probably killed the victims, unless he was holding them captive somewhere. Maybe he planned to send additional body parts to Sherlock. He wrinkled his nose. Stone and Mrs. Hudson would have a fit, and even John would probably get fed up if this became a regular occurrence.

He pushed the laptop away and closed his eyes to review his mental file on Moriarty, created nearly a half-dozen years ago and rarely accessed since then. Moriarty was not following the same modus operandi as he had back then, when he'd kidnapped hostages and forced them to play his game of phoning Sherlock to give a deadline to solve a puzzle. _Why the difference?_ Back then he'd had many people working for him, and they'd been the ones to do the dirty work of abducting and press-ganging innocent bystanders. But now? Did he still have people working for him, or had his network dissolved while he'd been in prison? Whoever had removed the fingers had been left-handed, based on the angles of the cuts, so perhaps Moriarty did have to do everything for himself now. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and went back to work. He took fingerprints and sent scans of them to Mycroft, and thought about sending copies to Lestrade, as well, but decided to wait. Sherlock could hack into all of the databases Lestrade used, and bringing him in now would mean he had to explain the situation and waste valuable time. 

He found no matches for the prints in any British databases, so he moved on to searching internationally. _Nothing._ Maybe Mycroft would have more luck, as frustrating as that would be to have to deal with.

He was able to confirm that the fingers had been removed from their bodies less than 24 hours ago, which was obvious given that Moriarty had only escaped yesterday. It didn't help him get any closer to identifying the victims, so he set to work preparing his microscope and a row of test tubes. If he tested the blood in each finger, maybe that would turn up some leads. He discovered that the male victim had a vitamin D deficiency and that the woman was slightly anaemic. Neither condition was uncommon in the UK, but if he corralled enough data he might be able to use it all to narrow down the identities. He detected no traces of poison or anything too out of the ordinary in the tissue samples, which was unsurprising. Moriarty would have doubtless used a faster and more direct way to kill or impair his victims. 

He ran every test he could think of, then texted Mycroft several times, impatient to hear the results of the DNA tests he had ordered. Mycroft had so far had no more luck than Sherlock. The owners of the fingers appeared not to exist, or more likely were simply two innocent civilians who'd never had reason to have their fingerprints or DNA samples collected by any authority. Sherlock slammed his fists on the table in frustration, then looked around to see why John didn't react to the sudden noise. There was no sign of him, or of Stone, for that matter, though surely they should have been back by now.

He retreated into his Mind Palace again until he heard the lift's motor stop as it reached their flat. _Finally._ Stone bounded into the kitchen, heading straight to his water dish instead of trying to get at the fingers.

Sherlock pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, his body protesting at the change in position. "Where were you?" he asked John, who was hanging up his coat and Stone's lead.

"I took Stone for a walk." 

He glanced at his watch. "You went out hours ago. It's nearly dinner time."

John shook his head, letting out a bark of laughter that sounded more annoyed than amused. "That was the second time I took him out. I was here in this flat with you for over six hours and you barely looked up from those fingers."

"Oh." It had been a very long time since he'd lost track of time like that because of a case. It felt good, intellectually at least, though his back was killing him and his hands ached. _Why do my hands ache?_ They'd never hurt before when he'd spent all day working at either his computer or his lab equipment. He squinted at John, trying to figure out why he sounded annoyed. He was certainly used to Sherlock losing himself in his work over the years, and it had never seemed to bother him before. In fact, he'd spent last spring complaining when Sherlock wasn't involved in any cases. 

"You should have let Mycroft take the fingers." John was still wearing his gun and holster, which made it difficult to focus on exactly what he was saying.

"Why?" Sherlock made himself look at John's face instead of his gun, lamenting that there'd been so few opportunities for him to wear it since he got the new holster. "Since when are you bothered by a couple of extra body parts in the flat? I haven't had them near any food."

"It's different, though, isn't it? They aren't just spare fingers Molly Hooper gave you so you could do some pointless experiment."

"My experiments aren't pointless."

"No, sorry, I didn't mean— But this is different, yeah? Moriarty probably didn't get them from a morgue. He cut off two people's fingers just to mess around with you."

"Hmm." Sherlock cracked his neck and swung his arms a few times, trying to stretch out the stiffness. "Wait. Molly. You don't think—"

"What?"

"You don't think she would've helped Moriarty escape, do you? Thinking maybe they could get back together again?"

"Sherlock! No, I don't think Molly has any desire to get back together with a man who pretended to date her and then blew up a building and killed twelve people."

"Hmm. No, you're right. She's probably not that desperate."

"She's seeing Lestrade."

"Is she?"

"Yes. Remember they came to our Christmas party together?"

"No, that night was awful. I deleted it."

"Of course you did. Anyway, this isn't a game, Sherlock. Moriarty cut off two people's fingers specifically to send them to you."

"But it is a game, to him. And I need to see it like he does if I'm going to be able to catch him." Not to mention that this was the most interesting case he'd had in ages. 

John shook his head. "Well, I hope you catch him quickly. I don't like you playing games with mass murderers."

"He's not a—okay, maybe he is. I'll catch him quickly, though. He's not as smart as he thinks he is."

"Smart enough to escape from your brother's prison."

Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft's not as smart as he thinks he is, either."

"That's probably true. But—" John cut off in the middle of his sentence, and a fraction of a second later Sherlock heard the reason why—the lift was humming again. Someone downstairs must have pushed the button to summon it. Mrs. Hudson, of course, but Sherlock couldn't keep his mind from going to Mycroft's words this morning. Maybe they should start keeping it locked, just in case. He watched as John turned his chair back toward the lift, noted the way he shifted his arms and shoulders so he would have easy access to the gun. Another little surge of pride and lust thrilled through him at the thought of John shooting someone who was trying to break into their flat. Though having to clean up and deal with the police afterwards would put a damper on the mood.

They both stared at the lift until they heard it begin to ascend again. "It's Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock confirmed. "I can hear her shoes." 

"Must be back from her shopping trip." John didn't relax his shoulders until the lift had reached their floor, though, and they could hear her beginning to chatter at them even as the doors folded open. Stone came running out to greet her, as he always did. For a brief moment Sherlock thought she'd brought them another mutilated body part, based on how excited the dog was to see her, but then he saw she was holding a paper sack with the name of a bakery on it. His stomach growled a bit at the prospect of pastry.

"Oh, Stony, hang on, just a minute. Let me get it out of the bag for you at least." Mrs. Hudson tried to push the dog out of the way, but John had to pull him back so she could enter the flat.

"Was your shopping trip successful? Stone, come on, sit." John tugged on his collar to no avail.

"Oh, yes." Mrs. Hudson walked across the room and set her bakery bag on the desk where the package with the fingers had been this morning. "I found a blue dress in the very first shop I went to. It's lovely—very flattering, makes me look tall." She giggled. "Of course I had to go to a few more shops to make sure there wasn't anything better, but then I went back and bought it. I'd show you how lovely it is, but I know neither of you really care."

John made a noise of protest as Sherlock shrugged and turned his back on the two of them. _She's right. No use in pretending otherwise._

He went back to his spot at the kitchen table while Mrs. Hudson prattled on. "And then I stopped at a new gluten-free bakery. I've never had a problem with gluten myself, but I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about." Sherlock perked up a bit. He enjoyed gluten as well, but if there was enough sugar in whatever she'd bought for him he would eat it anyway. "And they had the cutest little doggie treats. Shaped just like puppies! I had to buy a dozen. I knew Stone would love them."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disappointment. "Stone tried to eat two human fingers this morning. He's hardly discriminating."

"Oh, shush, you." Mrs. Hudson flapped her hand in his direction as if she could swat him from a distance. He turned back to his laptop, half-listening as she opened the bag of dog treats and then admonished Stone when he took one from her. "Oh, look at that, you bit the head clean off before I could show everyone how cute it was."

"I'll take the rest of those, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "I'll put them away so he can't eat them all at once."

"Yes, thank you, John. Stony, look at the mess you've made on the floor now. Crumbs everywhere. You're as bad as your owners, aren't you?"

John came into the kitchen and began to pile the biscuits into the plastic container where they kept Stone's treats. Mrs. Hudson continued to bustle around the sitting room. "Clutter everywhere," she said. "You'd think two grown men would occasionally pick up after themselves. No, you just pile stuff higher and higher. So many papers. You both use your computers for everything, don't you? Why do you have so many papers?"

Sherlock heard a rustling sound but before he could warn her not to mess up his organisational scheme, John abruptly turned and rolled his chair back out into the sitting room. "Not those, Mrs. Hudson, don't touch those papers. I'll take them, please. I know it's cluttered but we really don't need any help."

"Well, I suppose you think you don't," she replied. "Considering how you chased away all three cleaning ladies I hired for you." 

"Yes, we're sorry about that. It was a very nice gesture. Let me have those papers, please?"

Mrs. Hudson tutted some more before John came back into the kitchen, wheeling himself with one hand, a half-dozen sheets of paper clutched in the other. Without lifting his head from his laptop, Sherlock watched him pass through the kitchen on his way to the bedroom. What papers were so important that he didn't trust Mrs. Hudson to touch them? And then felt the need to hide them away in the bedroom— _oh_. He'd printed out his application but hadn't mailed it yet. Sherlock wasn't too surprised that John didn't want her to see that, although if things worked out then she would of course know about it eventually.

Mrs. Hudson was not so easily dissuaded from her goal of cleaning for them. She picked up an empty mug that had been left on the coffee table and carried it into the kitchen. "Oh, Sherlock, are you still playing with those fingers?" She shuddered. "You really need to get rid of them. They're bound to start smelling soon, and lord knows this flat has enough smelly old things in it." She extracted another dog biscuit from the container and took it out to Stone in the sitting room.

John returned from the bedroom. "She's right, you know. You should take a break from staring at those fingers."

Sherlock looked up. "Maybe. I haven't analysed the paper and box they were sent in. That might lead somewhere."

John sighed and pressed his hands briefly to his eyes. "No, I mean take an actual break. You haven't had anything to eat all day, have you?"

"I had an orange."

"No, I had an orange. You peeled it halfway and left it sitting on the table."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before returning his attention to his computer. "It's hardly my fault that you ate my orange, is it? Anyway, I've had three coffees and two cups of tea and they all had sugar in them. Plenty of calories."

"Jesus. Then take a toilet break at least. Walk around a little, get some air. Maybe you'll realise you need actual food to function well, like the rest of us."

Sherlock looked up at him again in annoyance. "You're the one who needs to keep himself regular." 

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock swallowed, realising that Mrs. Hudson was still in the next room and able to hear their bickering. He wasn't supposed to talk about John's bodily functions in front of others, but it was too late now, and she'd certainly shared more personal details than that herself. "You know what I mean." He twirled a hand in front of his own stomach, then flung his fingers outward to point at John. "Fine. Make me a sandwich if you're so worried." 

John did not make him a sandwich; he ignored Sherlock and left the room. Sherlock frowned. _Why is he hounding me so much about food?_ Surely John remembered the early days of their relationship, when he'd gone far longer without eating in pursuit of an urgent case. Just because they'd both slowed down a bit recently didn't mean Sherlock wasn't still capable of ignoring his body when he needed to. 

He tried to lose himself in his work again, but was pulled away from it after less than a quarter-hour when the doorbell rang. _Not Mycroft._ If he learned anything before Sherlock did, he was likely to show up in person for maximum dramatic effect, but he wouldn't have bothered to ring the bell. He would just let himself into the building and then rant about their lack of security again.

Maybe it was another package delivery. Maybe Moriarty really was going to keep sending more body parts until Sherlock solved the mystery of who they belonged to. 

He shot up from his chair and bolted through the flat and down the stairs; he was much faster than either John or Mrs. Hudson at getting to the door, plus he wanted to get his own look at whoever was making the deliveries for Moriarty.

He flung open the door to the street, only briefly wondering if he should have grabbed John's gun on his way out, and surprised a boy who couldn't have been out of his teens who stood on the stoop, holding a carrier bag from Speedy's. "Er, Mr. Chatterjee said I should bring this upstairs and give it directly to Dr. Watson?"

"I'll take it." Sherlock snatched the bag away from the boy. John had ordered lunch for him. He didn't know if he was more irritated or grateful, though after he closed the door and peeked into the bag, he settled on irritated. Two large salads, one topped with chicken and one drenched in cheese. 

He had no interest in eating a salad, so he left the bag on the worktop and went back to the fingers, hoping something new would strike him if he worked for long enough.

"Hey." John's hand was on the back of his neck, a few degrees cooler than his own skin. Sherlock leaned automatically into the touch, then glanced around the flat. Enough time had passed that Mrs. Hudson was gone and Stone was asleep on the sofa. "How's it going?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not well."

"Sorry. And I'm sorry if I've been a little short with you today. It's just—" John waved his free hand toward the empty box that Sherlock had dissected, hoping to find a clue.

"What?"

"Moriarty. And wedding rings. This case is way too personal."

Sherlock frowned. "To him, maybe. To me it's just an interesting case."

"Okay, well. That still doesn't mean I like another man sending you wedding rings."

Sherlock twisted in his seat to look at John's face. "Are you jealous?"

"No. I mean...no. Of course not."

"Good. Because you have no reason to be."

"I know."

"Mycroft would kill me if I tried to marry a criminal who had escaped his secret prison."

John whacked him in the shoulder, laughing, then nodded at the carrier bag still on the worktop. "You didn't eat your salad."

"Not hungry. Working."

John sighed and brought his hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck again, fingers roaming into the edge of his hair.

Sherlock let the muscles in his neck soften a little at John's touch. "If I had a sandwich, I could eat it with one hand while I kept working."

John's fingers stopped moving, though he didn't pull them away. "Well, I'm not going to waste your salad." He dropped his hand from Sherlock's neck and Sherlock bent over his laptop again. John crossed the room to the worktop; apparently he was going to eat the salad himself, because he pulled it from the bag and opened the plastic container. A few moments later he turned around. "There. I made you a sandwich."

Sherlock lifted his head to look. "You just put the salad between two slices of bread."

"Yep. Grilled chicken with lettuce and tomato, a bit of carrot, radish and onion. Want some mayo on it?"

"Just a little."

"I know."

"Is that the bread I like?"

"Of course."

Sherlock tried not to smile but John knew him too well. He ate the sandwich while John questioned him about what he'd learned from examining the rings and fingers so far. He was hoping that explaining it all out loud would trigger a breakthrough, but had no such luck this time. 

He kept at it for hours after he ate. John made a few attempts to entice him away but mostly left him alone. At some point he told Sherlock he was going to bed and Sherlock waved him away. It was late but not that late; he could work for hours yet.

Except he didn't know what else he could do. He'd analysed the fingerprints and the fingernails and the tissue and the blood and the rings and the box and the wrapping paper it had come in. He knew that the gift wrap had been sold in stores and online for the last three years and that the woman was a universal blood donor and that the man was taking an SSRI and had traces of Xanax in his blood, but he still didn't know whose fingers they were, or why Moriarty might have chosen to target the victims, or if they'd been chosen randomly, innocent casualties of a madman's obsession. 

When he heard the water for John's shower shut off, he got up and went into the bedroom. Stone was asleep on the bed, of course, so Sherlock coaxed him off and into the corner where his dog bed sat, then got ready for bed himself. By the time John was done in the bathroom, Sherlock was waiting for him in bed.

"Did you take your pill?" John asked, as he stuffed his dirty clothes into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room.

"Yes." Sherlock replied. John didn't usually check up on him like that anymore, but he understood why he might have expected Sherlock to skip the anti-depressant tonight, given how much he always complained about it making him sleep too much. But right now he welcomed that irresistible pull of sleep; it would be better than lying awake wondering how to solve the mystery of the fingers.

He waited until John turned off the light and got into bed before rolling toward him, stretching himself out along John's side. John slid one arm beneath him and pulled him in closer. "Did you get anywhere with the fingers?"

"No."

"Sorry, love. Maybe you'll figure it out in the morning."

Sherlock sighed, then let the exhalation take him deeper into John's embrace. _Maybe._ Or maybe Mycroft would find a match for him. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but he knew his brother had resources he hadn't yet figured out how to access. Or maybe Mycroft's minions would catch Moriarty and Sherlock wouldn't have to think about him at all anymore. This morning's macabre delivery had been an entertaining distraction at first, but it had also caused enough tension between him and John that it wasn't worth the bit of fun it had provided. He did like challenging cases, but perhaps it was better when they didn't involve a personal connection.

He nuzzled the skin beneath John's ear, mouth closed, then draped his arm across John's chest. They were unlikely to sleep like that all night, but, for now, it was exactly where Sherlock wanted to be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely betas and Britpicker, [Iriswallpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper), [SherlocksSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister) and [Standbygo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo)\--you all are making this story much better than I could on my own!

Sherlock woke to find that at some point in the night, he had become the little spoon. John was pressed up tight against his back, one arm slung over his chest. Sherlock closed his eyes again and let himself sink back toward sleep, basking in the sensation of John's body against his. It had been a warm spring night and they both wore only thin t-shirts, which meant Sherlock could feel the firm muscles of John's arms and chest and, if he shifted a bit, the small, hard bite of the ring that bisected his left nipple. _Nice._ Nice, but unusual. John had never been one to cuddle in his sleep. He still wasn't one to cuddle in his sleep, and the fact that he had wrapped himself around Sherlock suggested a concerted effort to do so: it wasn't as if he rolled around in his sleep these days. He couldn't turn from his back all the way onto his side without waking up at least partway to drag his legs into position. Sherlock twitched his own foot back to check—yes, John's legs were tucked neatly behind his, his feet uncomfortably cold even though the rest of him was warm. He must have woken up, then felt the need to move closer to Sherlock despite his preference to sleep unentwined. And Sherlock knew of only one reason why he would make the effort to do that.

He squirmed beneath John's arm until he was lying on his back. John was staring at him, though Sherlock could tell that he'd just woken up, as well.

"Bad dream?" 

"Yeah, earlier. A bit." John lifted his arm from Sherlock's chest and scrubbed a hand across his face.

"You're supposed to wake me up." That was the agreement: Sherlock wouldn't stop taking his antidepressants even though they made him sleep too soundly as long as John woke him up if he had a nightmare.

"I did wake you up. You told me you would never go gluten-free and then you tried to take off your socks."

"I wasn't wearing socks." 

"I know," John said.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. You were amusing. Wasn't the usual nightmare, anyway. I mean, it wasn't a good dream, but.... I just wanted to make sure you were still there."

Sherlock rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes, trying to make sense of John's words. "Of course I'm still here."

"I know." John heaved himself onto his back again, legs landing heavily askew. "Okay, I shouldn't have slept like that. My shoulder's going to hate me today." 

"Mm." Sherlock stretched his own arms and legs, then tipped his head from side-to-side, trying to work the night-time stiffness out of his neck.

"You going to spend the whole day playing with Moriarty's rings again today?"

 _Ah. Jealousy. Best to ignore._ "I'm going to have a bath. I feel all sweaty, as if someone's been clinging to me all night."

John poked him in the back as he sat up to get out of bed. "Thought I smelled something bad."

"That's the dog," Sherlock said.

"Mm. Easy to confuse the two of you, I guess."

Sherlock flipped his pillow across the bed, whacking John in the face, then reached for his phone to check his messages. Nothing new from Mycroft, so yes, maybe he would have to spend the day playing with Moriarty's rings again. The thought held little appeal. Maybe he'd have a breakthrough in the bath.

He lingered until the water grew cold, but was unable to summon any brilliant ideas in regard to the case, which shouldn't have been too surprising. These days it always took a while for him to shake off the fogginess of the antidepressants and wake up fully. He couldn't deny that the meds helped, though, even now that they were past the struggles of John's recovery and first months back home. There was a reason he'd had the prescription long before John had been hurt, although he'd never wanted to admit it. _If only they could improve my mood all the time._ Apparently being unable to solve a case manufactured by an obsessed criminal who was making John vaguely jealous was enough to dampen his spirits in spite of the medication.

He towelled off and slipped into a dressing gown, then emerged from the bathroom to find John making the bed. So much for going back to sleep, or enticing John back under the covers with him. Instead he got dressed while John finished with the bed, laughing when Stone jumped onto the neatly arranged blankets as soon as he was done.

"Maybe we should sign him up for obedience classes," John said.

"Go right ahead," Sherlock said, and moved the chew toy Stone had dropped on the bed so he could sit down to put on his socks and shoes.

John shook his head, though he made no attempt to chase Stone off the bed, but rather turned his attention to tidying up the nightstand, where he'd left the papers he'd snatched away from Mrs. Hudson yesterday.

"Is that the trial application?" Sherlock looked down at his shoe as he tied it, although he didn't expect John to be reluctant to talk about it with him. 

"Yeah." John picked up the stack of a dozen or so papers and tapped them on the surface of the nightstand to straighten them together.

"So did you decide?"

"I did. I submitted it online. This is just a copy I printed for myself."

"Oh. Okay." He let it drop. John had been undecided for weeks about whether he wanted to apply for the medical trial, with good reason.

"It'll probably be a while before I hear anything." John set the papers on his lap, smoothing away an invisible wrinkle. "And even if—even if I get in. I might not do it." He looked up, as if asking Sherlock for permission.

Sherlock tightened his shoelace more than he needed to and finally looked up to meet John's eyes. "All right. Your decision."

"I know." He took a deep breath. "It's just, I'd have to be away from home for months again, even longer than rehab, and for something that might not even make a difference."

"Mm." They'd discussed this at great length already. Sherlock thought John would be accepted to the trial, since he met all the qualifications—age, health, level of injury—but he understood his reluctance.

"Anyway." John crossed the room and tucked the application copy in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, where he kept papers he didn't want to lose. "Greg called while you were in the bath. He thinks he's found the victims. Two bodies missing fingers, dead in their flat. A married couple, Christopher and Amy Crawford."

"What? Lestrade doesn't even know about the fingers."

"Er, yeah, he does."

"How?"

"I told him yesterday."

"Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I? So he could help us, keep an eye out for the victims, like he just did. What, were you trying to keep Moriarty's game all to yourself?"

Sherlock pulled his jacket from its hanger, scowling. "If the police know about the fingers, it's only a matter of time before they try to confiscate them."

"Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? You don't need them anymore because they found the bodies they came from. Greg says to meet him there as soon as you can. He'll text you the address."

"Fine." Sherlock shrugged into his jacket, arranging his still damp hair over the collar. "Are you all ready?"

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. You're not working today. What else are you going to do?"

"Nope. Sorry." John's tone was clipped. "You're on your own with this one."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, waiting to see if he needed to deduce or if John would explain, and John sighed. "Greg says their flat's upstairs and the building doesn't have a lift."

Sherlock raised his chin as if to nod, then redirected his gaze to the corner of the room, where John's leg braces and crutches were propped in the corner, untouched in at least a week, though ideally he was supposed to spend time wearing them daily.

John's shoulders sank. "Ah, no. Come on. Don't ask me to do that."

"Okay. I won't." Sherlock slipped his jacket off and reached for a dressing gown. Lestrade could Skype him from the crime scene instead.

"Sherlock." John swore under his breath. "You can't just— All right. Fine, I'll do it, if I have to."

Sherlock turned back toward him. "I'm not going to force you to wear them if you don't want to."

"No, I'll do it. Just this once, because I know this case is important to you. But I can't wear them over my coat, so I won't be able to bring my gun."

"I'll put it in my coat pocket. Or, since we will be in a building surrounded by the Metropolitan Police Service, perhaps they can protect us."

John laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I guess they can probably handle it. All right, give me a few minutes and we can go."

 _Excellent._ He knew John was much more comfortable in his wheelchair than using the braces, but Sherlock wouldn't have asked him to wear them in public if he didn't think it was necessary. He always preferred to have John at his side, and that was even more true with this case, since Moriarty appeared to be targeting the two of them as a couple. Feeling much more optimistic than he had at any time since he'd opened Moriarty's gruesome package yesterday, Sherlock exchanged his dressing gown for his suit jacket once more, then picked up his phone to let Lestrade know they would be there as soon as they could.

An hour later, as the cab pulled up to the address Lestrade had provided, Sherlock refrained from asking John if he was sure about using the braces in public, for fear of the answer. He simply unloaded them from the cab's boot while John got out of the car, and— _yes, there it is._

"Maybe I'll wait down here while you go up. Might be something you can solve quickly, and it won't be worth it to—" John waved his hand toward the braces, quirking his lip.

"It's Moriarty. It's not going to be quick." Sherlock started unfastening the Velcro strips on the braces so John could put them on.

"Not out here," John said, glancing at the two uniformed police officers stationed at the perimeter of the scene. "Inside."

The two cops were too busy flirting with each other to pay attention to anything else, but Sherlock refrained from pointing that out. He grabbed the crutches and braces and followed John across the pavement. There were two steps up into the building, but they were broad enough that they weren't much of an obstacle for John, and his chair just fit through the narrow front door. Once inside, Sherlock could hear people moving about over their heads, but there was no one else in the narrow entryway, which was set up much like their building at Baker Street.

John peered up the staircase. "I'm not sure—"

Sherlock cut him off. "This is the reason you've practiced on the stairs at home, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but I still hate using those things."

"Yes, I am aware." 

John scowled but accepted the moulded plastic and metal pieces from Sherlock and began to strap them to his legs. He no longer needed any help getting them on, but Sherlock stood by just in case. He would've happily assisted to speed up the process, but knew better than to make that suggestion. One of John's primary objections to the braces was that he felt more helpless and less in control while wearing them, and an offer of assistance wasn't likely to improve that association.

Once John had everything on, he stood and then started up the stairs, leaning on the forearm crutches for support while he lifted himself up each step, his legs locked in place by the braces. Sherlock carried his coat and the folded wheelchair up for him, staying several steps behind so John had room to move, but ready to catch him should he stumble.

John stopped about halfway up the flight and turned his head to peer back at Sherlock, which caused a bit of a wobble and made Sherlock dart up two steps toward him in fear.

"I don't want to do this," John said, trepidation clearly written across his wrinkled brow. 

"You're already doing it." Sherlock stepped back again before John could object to the suggestion of help. "Easier to keep going than to turn around now." From his position two steps below and inches away, he saw John's shoulders slump fractionally and then straighten and rise again, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he adjusted his crutches and swung himself up to the next step. Sherlock watched him for a moment before following, wishing briefly that they were back home again, so when they got to the top of the stairs he could wrestle John to the floor, or sweep him off his feet, or steady him against the wall while they kissed. He filed the urge away for later, reminding himself why they were there, and that every slow step they took up this staircase was one step closer to catching Moriarty.

The hallway in front of them was empty when they reached the top of the stairs. _Good._ Sherlock stepped past John so he could open the wheelchair for him.

"Would've been easier to just sit on my arse and drag myself up," John said.

"Not very dignified."

"Neither is this." John raised one of the crutches and nodded down at himself.

Sherlock leaned over to press a light kiss against John's temple. He only had to bend a few inches, which was absolutely worth ignoring John's grumbles about the braces. He straightened up at the sound of a door opening, and Lestrade's voice calling out into the hallway.

"Oh, Sherlock you're here. Good. We've been waiting—John!"

Next to him, John stiffened and Sherlock automatically took a step closer to him, slipping an arm around his waist, over the hard plastic support that covered his lower back. He could feel the metal joint of the brace that locked John's hip in place pressing against his own thigh.

Lestrade stared at John for a moment, then broke into a grin. "Didn't expect to see you here, too. Glad you came."

Sherlock let himself relax, and felt the tension in John's body lessen slightly, as well. _Thank you, Lestrade, for not overreacting._ He still remembered how hesitant John had been at first to let himself be seen in public in the chair, and knew that the braces presented a similar challenge. John did not want to be stared at, especially by people he knew. 

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, but before he could start telling him what he had found in the victims' flat, Anderson appeared in the doorway behind him.

"John! You can walk!" Anderson exclaimed.

John's hands tightened on the grips of his crutches. "No, I really can't."

"Anderson, you—" Sherlock began, and John elbowed him in the side. Sherlock glared at him— _why shouldn't I be able to tell Anderson off for being an idiot?_ —though he did recall saying something very similar himself, the first time he'd seen John using the braces.

"Go see if Sally's found any more fingerprints for you, Anderson," Lestrade said. Anderson grimaced but disappeared back into the flat without argument.

Sherlock dropped his arm from John's waist and stepped away, pulling the empty wheelchair closer, which had the intended effect of making Lestrade step back.

John glanced at Sherlock, tongue pushing out hesitantly between his lips. "How long do you think we'll be up here?

"As long as it takes." Sherlock shrugged and looked at Lestrade.

"Scene's pretty straightforward. I haven't let anyone touch anything. Not sure what you're looking for, though. We know how they died."

"I'm looking to see if there's any connection to Moriarty. Why did he choose this couple to kill?" _Honestly, Lestrade should know better._ Sherlock pulled John's chair back and locked the wheels so he could sit in it, then raised his eyebrows when John didn't move.

"Maybe I'll wait a bit." John shifted his crutches. "It's not worth taking these things off if I'm just going to have to put them back on in a few minutes."

Given how much John hated wearing the braces and preferred the freedom and ease of movement he had with the chair, that was more than a little surprising, but it didn't matter either way to Sherlock. Now that they were this close to the murder scene, he couldn't wait any longer.

Lestrade led the way into the victims' flat. Sherlock stepped to the side to allow John room to enter next to him while he scanned the large living space, forming a preliminary picture of the victims' lives. Neat, tastefully decorated, plenty of framed photographs lining the walls and shelves, quite boring. He frowned and turned in a slow circle, looking for anything of interest, before moving on to the next room.

The kitchen was significantly less neat than the sitting room, primarily due to all the blood. The room was large and modern, recently updated, open to the main living area, and offered plenty of space to execute two people and leave their bodies where they fell. The man, Christopher Crawford, was sprawled in a chair at the table, a bullet hole between his eyes, the wall behind him covered in brain matter and blood. His body had been arranged so that his left arm laid on the table and his hand, minus two fingers, was placed atop a bamboo chopping board. His little finger sat by itself on the edge of the board; his ring finger was back at Baker Street, in the bottom drawer of the fridge-freezer, where Stone wouldn't find it while he was home alone.

 _How considerate of Moriarty to use a chopping board and spare the table top from any damage._ And it had been Moriarty himself who had killed him. Sherlock could tell at a glance: the arrangement of the hand and position of cuts on the fingers had clearly been made by a left-handed person exactly Moriarty's height.

He'd had a silencer on the gun he'd used to kill Christopher. The wife, Amy, hadn't heard the shot, but had been surprised as she walked into the kitchen. Moriarty had killed Christopher first, then Amy, but cut off her fingers first, without the precaution of the chopping board. The blood from her hand had made a pool on the hardwood floor—the next residents of this flat would need to refinish or replace the floor. There were fingerprints everywhere, clearly left in the blood. Moriarty wasn't trying to cover his tracks at all. He wanted the police—and Sherlock—to know it was him.

While Sherlock inspected the bodies, John slowly made his way around the sitting room, looking at family photos and the flat's other decor and announcing his findings to Sherlock. "Looks like she was a teacher. Little kids. Not sure about him...maybe something in an office?"

"Clerical work," Sherlock confirmed, stepping around the blood on the floor to get a better look at Amy's body. "He found it boring. Wasn't planning to make a career of it."

"Mm, okay." John didn't ask him to explain. "They went on a lot of nice holidays together. Here's their honeymoon." He lifted a hand from one of his crutches to adjust a photo on the mantel. "Married about five years."

"I know."

"They both come from big families, looks like. No kids of their own, bunch of nieces and nephews."

Sherlock let John's recitation of the mundane facts of their lives file itself away in his mind palace, in case the information became useful at some point. Anderson wandered into the kitchen and Sherlock chased him away—he wasn't getting much helpful data from the bodies but having Anderson there to muck things up wouldn't help. Maybe John could, though; even if he didn't catch anything Sherlock had missed, he did tend to be an excellent conductor of light.

"John!" Sherlock stood up from where he'd been crouched beneath the table and glanced over into the sitting room, but John was no longer there.

He called his name again and Lestrade stuck his head out from one of the bedrooms. "Oi, stop yelling. He left."

"Left? What do you mean, he left?" Sherlock dropped his magnifying glass into his coat pocket and stepped over Amy's body, then craned his neck to see past Lestrade into the bedroom.

"He's not in here." Lestrade pushed the door open all the way so Sherlock could see. "He went out into the hallway about five, ten minutes ago. He told you he was going—I heard him."

Sherlock narrowed one eye at Lestrade. "You're wasting your time in there. They both found their sex life satisfying, even if it was rather vanilla."

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air with a groan and Sherlock, smirking, left him to his own deductions. He expected to find John out in the hallway, back in his chair, having decided he'd had enough of the braces, but there was no sign of him. _Where did he go—back downstairs?_ It was either that or up to the top floor, but there'd been no indication that the building's other tenants had anything to do with the Crawfords' murders. _Why didn't he come and get me if he wanted to leave?_ John always said that it was harder to keep his balance going down the stairs than up, and he shouldn't have done it without someone nearby to help if needed. _Maybe he did try to get me to help him._ Lestrade said that John had told him he was leaving, but Sherlock had been too wrapped up in what he was doing to notice him trying to get his attention. And John wouldn't have wanted to venture very far into the kitchen because the floor was covered in blood and he wouldn't be able to manoeuvre around it very well with the braces. _Probably got pissed off at me for making him come here and then ignoring him, so he left. Caught a cab and went home without me, most likely._ Though how had got his wheelchair downstairs on his own?

Sherlock scrambled down the stairs and found the front hallway on the ground floor empty, too. He pushed through the door to the street outside and there was John, his back to Sherlock, his hair catching the glint of the elusive London sun as he sat in his wheelchair on the pavement. Sally Donovan was standing in front of him, doubled over in laughter, while the two officers guarding the scene stood nearby, looking confused.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets as he approached John and Donovan, trying to look like he'd just happened to stroll down the stairs.

"Oh." John looked up at him, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "Sally was just telling me about Anderson and—" He glanced over at her and they both started giggling again. When he'd recovered enough to speak, John apologised. "It's hard to explain. You kind of had to be there." He smiled and turned away from Donovan, toward Sherlock. "So did you figure out why Moriarty killed those two people yet?"

"Ah. No." Sherlock took his hands out of his pockets and clasped them behind his back. "Why did you leave?"

"Oh, I was going to go get some coffee. Sally brought my chair down for me, then I guess we got side-tracked."

"Sorry," Donovan said. "Did I distract the genius from his work by stealing his husband?"

"Yes."

John rolled his eyes. "There's nothing you need me to do up there, Sherlock. The victims were shot to death, and then their ring fingers were removed. It's not exactly a medical mystery."

Sherlock sighed. John was right. They knew how the Crawfords had died, and they knew who had killed them. There was nothing particularly notable in the flat, and Lestrade had already sent the Crawfords' computers and phones and other devices back to Scotland Yard so they could be searched for any more clues as to why they had been targeted, if indeed they had been targeted and not randomly chosen by a madman. There was no reason for him to go back inside, and even less reason for John to put the braces back on and join him.

"I could go for a coffee," Sherlock said.

"Hey, what's this talk about coffee?" Lestrade called, as he and Anderson emerged from the building and joined them on the pavement. Anderson was still wearing his protective blue coverall—if anyone had reason to be embarrassed to be seen in public, it was him.

"Your crime scene is putting me to sleep," Sherlock told Lestrade. "We're going to get caffeine."

Lestrade sighed. "I was hoping you'd sweep in and figure everything out for us."

"There's nothing to figure out. They were killed by a criminally insane mass murderer who escaped from my brother's custody. You should find him before he kills anyone else."

"Yeah, but where should I look?" Lestrade spread his hands and looked up and down the street, as if Moriarty might be standing nearby, watching. Actually—

"There's a good chance these victims were chosen randomly," Sherlock said. "If that's the case, then why here? Why this particular house on this street? Was Moriarty in the area? Is he still here? You need to have your people check every building in the vicinity—maybe he has a bolt hole or a flat of his own nearby."

"That's going to take a lot of officers a long time."

"Well, you'd better get going, then."

Lestrade scowled. "Can't you just magically deduce if he's in one of the buildings?"

"Deductions aren't magic, Lestrade."

"Fine." Lestrade pulled his police radio from his pocket. "But after you get your caffeine fix, you'd better get down to Scotland Yard with those fingers John says you have, so we can see if they match the victims."

"They match."

"And should I ask why you happen to have fingers that belonged to two murder victims in your possession?"

"Oh, come on. You know why I have them, and you know I had nothing to do with it."

"Sure, I know it. But we still need to go by the book, keep a proper trail of paperwork."

"We'll bring them down, Greg," John said. "We'll go home and get the fingers, then stop and get coffee and something to eat, yeah?" He gave Sherlock a look that indicated he was sympathetic but would hear no arguing.

"I can give you two a lift," Donovan offered.

Sherlock sniffed. "We'll take a cab."

"Nope, sorry, Sherlock," John said. "I already put my braces and crutches in Sally's car, so looks like you're stuck with her, unless you want to take a cab by yourself."

 _Of course._ Force John to come to a crime scene, fail to make any progress in solving the crime, and then wrap it up by going for a ride in Sally Donovan's police car. _Perfect._ Sherlock blinked his eyes closed for a moment, wondering what else could possibly go wrong today.

"Er, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "If you want to leave, you'd better do it now."

He opened his eyes. "Why?"

Lestrade tipped his phone screen toward Sherlock, as if he could read his text from more than a body's length away. "The media just got wind of the murders, and reporters are on the way. Not sure you want to explain why you're here, at what looks like a perfectly straightforward murder scene."

"God, no." He assumed the news of Moriarty's escape would get out soon, but he had no desire to let it be known that the madman was back to playing games with him again. He waved a hand at Donovan and John. "Fine, lead the way. It'd better be a damned good cup of coffee you buy for me, though." He followed them to Sally's car, taking the time to look up and down the street at the buildings that crowded the popular residential area. Moriarty could be in one of them right now, watching them through half-closed blinds. If he was, then his time as a free man—and the twisted game he was trying to play—would soon be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), the leg braces mentioned here appear in [chapter 22](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/8215810) of that fic. John is supposed to wear them for a little while every day to help keep his bones and muscles in shape, though they aren't expected to ever be a practical means of locomotion. He hates them and really doesn't like other people to see him wearing them. Someone asked what they look like so here's a couple of examples (his are probably not pink):  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm writing as quickly as I can, but it turns out this "Moriarty is doing plot things" is really hard to merge with "this series is just about Sherlock and John's relationship." I'm doing my best, but it's a struggle. I hope so far my readers are enjoying it!


	4. Chapter 4

Donovan drove them to Baker Street and after that they stopped for coffee before heading over to Scotland Yard. "I still don't know why you two insisted on coming all the way back here with me," Donovan said, as she led Sherlock and John into the office and across the room to her desk. 

"I just wanted the coffee." John raised his cup and took a long swallow.

Sherlock drew the plastic bag containing the fingers and wedding rings from his coat pocket. "I wasn't about to hand these over without making sure they were properly logged in as evidence in the case."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," Donovan protested. "I'm not Anderson."

"No, but you're sleeping with him again."

Donovan opened her mouth to object—even though she clearly was sleeping with him again—but John interrupted.

"God, Sherlock, just give them to her already." He emptied his cup and tossed it into the bin next to Donovan's desk. "Stop carrying them around in your pocket like they're some precious gift."

Sherlock frowned at him. "You really are jealous, aren't you?"

"No, you're just abnormally obsessed. I mean, I'm used to you having random body parts around, but you don't usually get personally attached to them."

"I'm not—" He sniffed and dropped the bag onto Donovan's desk. "Fine. There you are. They're no use to me now anyway, since we've found the bodies they came from."

Donovan picked up a pencil and used it to push the bag closer to the edge of her desk. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Not much use as a detective if she's that squeamish._ He turned away from her, scanning the rest of the room until he spied what he was looking for: the electronic devices that had been gathered from the Crawfords' flat. He strode across the room and plucked the laptop from the pile. "Lestrade asked me to inspect this personally," he told the puzzled technician who hadn't even managed to get past the lock screen of Amy Crawford's phone yet. He tucked the laptop under his arm and headed for Lestrade's office before the tech or anyone else could object.

He sat at Lestrade's desk, generating a list of possible passwords as he waited for the laptop to boot, only to discover that it didn't require one. He shook his head at the lack of security and began to comb through the files on the computer. He assumed John would join him shortly, but he didn't. Every time Sherlock looked out through the open blinds, he could see him talking, first to Donovan, then to apparently every other officer who was on duty. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. _He always has been too friendly._

Finally, John finished chatting and joined him in Lestrade's office. "How's it going?"

Sherlock leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable leather chair. "Not well. This laptop is like an open book."

"I'm sure those two statements together make sense in your head."

Sherlock sighed. "I was hoping to find some hidden connection to Moriarty."

"But you haven't?"

"No. The Crawfords shared a laptop and there's a file on the desktop labelled 'passwords' that has login information for all of their online accounts. There are no secrets here." He reached out and slammed the laptop closed in frustration.

"Sorry." John glanced back out into the office, then shut the door behind him and came closer to the desk. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Go show that unqualified technician out there how to hack the Crawfords' phones so we can see if there's anything useful on them."

"Not really in my skillset."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Unfortunately, I don't really need the skillset of an army doctor right now."

John raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Because I think I might know a cure."

"A cure for...?"

"Your brain. When it's stuck on a case. I know how to fix it."

Sherlock tipped Lestrade's chair back, watching as John crossed the room again to close the blinds on the door and window that looked out on the rest of the department. When he came back, Sherlock let himself be pulled forward by the lapels for a quick, rough kiss.

John broke the kiss and released his grip after a few seconds. Sherlock smirked at him. "You think a single kiss from you will enable me to solve this case?"

"No." The tip of John's tongue darted out from between his lips, but he didn't otherwise move, just stared at Sherlock, waiting. 

Sherlock considered the offer. It wouldn't be the first time they'd stolen a moment alone while on a case, though they'd never done it here in Scotland Yard. But if Lestrade was busy coordinating a search of all the flats around the Crawfords' building, as Sherlock had advised, then he wouldn't be back for some time. He glanced at the closed door, then back at John. _Yes._

He stood and with a push of one foot sent Lestrade's chair rolling backward out of the way, then began to clear a space in the middle of the desk, setting both Lestrade's and the Crawfords' laptops to the side. 

John quirked an eyebrow at him.

"It's the right height," Sherlock said. He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the chair and then turned and hopped up onto Lestrade's desk. 

"Is it?" John flicked Sherlock's knee with his index finger, and Sherlock willingly spread his legs. John trailed one finger from his knee up along the inside of his thigh and then lowered his head to mouth at the fabric of his trousers for a moment. "Yep, I guess you're right."

Sherlock shivered, then regained his composure. "Of course I am." Sherlock paused with one hand on his own flies. "You sure about this?" 

"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't," John said. 

"If you weren't," Sherlock corrected automatically.

John leaned back, hand dropping from Sherlock's thigh. "Do you want me to suck your cock or not?"

"Sorry." Sherlock grinned and started to unfasten his trousers, but John batted his hand out of the way.

"I'll do all the work. You focus on solving the case."

"No, it's not about focusing on the case. It's about clearing my mind so I can solve it afterwards. I hope."

"Okay, well." John pushed the locks down on his wheelchair, then ran his hands up Sherlock's thighs again, more firmly this time. He stopped with his thumbs a hair's breadth away from where Sherlock wanted them. "Let's get to it then." 

Sherlock settled himself as comfortably as he could—there was a stack of file folders a few inches from his left thigh and an empty coffee mug to his right, but otherwise Lestrade's desk was fairly empty. He let John undo his flies and pushed the waistband of his trousers and pants down as far as he could. He didn't have many limits, but letting his bare arse touch Lestrade's desk was apparently one of them.

John pressed his lips against the exposed skin of Sherlock's stomach, nudging the tails of his shirt aside. Sherlock slid forward a little more on the desk, seeking more contact, and John complied, kissing lower and then wrapping one hand around Sherlock's still mostly soft cock and giving him a long, slow pull, his hand rough and a little cooler than Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock had to put his hands on the desk to steady himself. "Oh, yes."

John lifted his head enough to glance past Sherlock at the door behind him. "You will need to keep your voice down."

"Mm-hmm." Sherlock let the vocalisation rumble through closed lips, barely audible. John leaned forward again and ghosted his lips along his cock before taking him fully into his mouth. Sherlock let his eyes fall shut. Maybe he should have sat in Lestrade's chair, so he'd be able to lean back more. _Would John have had to hunch over too much then?_ He opened his eyes to gauge their comparative heights as they were and John lifted his head once again.

"Stop thinking," John told him.

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're not even—" John dropped his head to give him a quick swirl of his tongue and then exchanged his mouth for his hand once more. 

Sherlock let his mind settle as his cock thickened. He kept his eyes open so he could watch John's fingers as they moved with practiced expertise. Sometimes John liked to tease and take things slowly, but now he moved quickly, taking Sherlock into his mouth again as soon as he was fully hard.

He hadn't thought about it until John's lips were wrapped around him, but it had been over a week since they had done more than kiss each other goodnight. And the last time they'd done anything like this in public had been a year ago, on the day John left the rehab centre. Sherlock let himself smile. Maybe this would work, and even if it didn't help him solve the case, at least things were better than they'd been at this time last year. He let himself fall into John's rhythm, thrusting into his mouth, though not as forcefully as he normally would, given his precarious position on Lestrade's desk. 

John paused to check the door behind Sherlock a few times when he first started, but once they got going he kept all his attention on Sherlock, continuing to use his hands as well as his mouth, stroking each time he pulled back to take a breath and whisper filthy words of encouragement.

"John."

"Yes?" John had pulled off again. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's; his lips glistened with saliva. 

"Stop stopping." He put both hands on John's head and pressed down, meeting little resistance as John obligingly swallowed him down again. Sherlock exhaled and tried to scoot even closer to the edge of the desk. John grunted around his cock and moved his right hand from between Sherlock's legs to his hip, shoving the waistband of his pants down farther so he could stroke the bare skin. The additional point of contact sent an unexpected thrill through Sherlock's whole body, strong enough to distract him so it took longer than it should have to register the brief warning rattle that came a split-second before the door to the office swung open.

John reacted first, letting Sherlock's cock slide from his mouth with a curse. He dropped his hands to the rims of his chair, tried to push himself back, then cursed again when the chair didn't move because he hadn't unlocked the wheels.

Sherlock shot a glance over his shoulder in time to see Lestrade walk through the door, Donovan close on his heels. She was the one who saw them first—Lestrade was too busy looking at something on his phone. 

"Oh, Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?" Rather than turning and fleeing, Donovan put her hands on her hips and glared.

Sherlock inhaled, rapidly cycling through a string of emotions: disappointment, anger and a very brief burst of shame that he banished immediately. He glanced at John, who seemed to be having a more difficult time overcoming his embarrassment, if the colour of his face and the way he kept his head down were any indication. _Ridiculous._

"Excuse me." Sherlock tried to keep his voice level and dismissive, which was more challenging than he would have expected, with nothing but a coffee mug sat on the desk to shield him from Donovan's stare. His instinct was to cover himself, of course, though a stubborn part of him insisted that would be akin to admitting shame. He reached past his rapidly softening cock to find the waistband of his pants and carefully tucked himself away, then slid back so he was seated more fully on Lestrade's desk. "Don't be embarrassed, John. We've been married for nearly a year now. I'm sure they know we have sex."

"Not in my office, you don't!" Lestrade shouted. "I eat my lunch on that desk!"

Sherlock sighed and hopped off the desk. His trousers slid lower as he moved and he bent to pull them up before turning to face Lestrade and Donovan. Neither of them had backed away or turned around; he was quite certain Donovan had been eyeing him up. He met her gaze. "Like what you saw?"

"Not particularly impressed," she said, shaking her head. "John, you could definitely do better."

John snorted a laugh, and the tension in the room began to dissipate. Sherlock glanced behind him to catch John surreptitiously wiping at his mouth before speaking. "I guess I'm the only one who's going to apologise, Greg," John said. "Sorry. I didn't know what else to do to help him figure out this case. Thought this might clear his mind, maybe trigger a breakthrough."

"Did it work?" Lestrade dropped his phone into his pocket and looked at them expectantly.

Sherlock scowled. "Of course not. You didn't let us finish."

Donovan burst into laughter and Lestrade threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration. "Nope, gotta draw the line somewhere. Go on home and clear your mind there. Or I'll have to bust you for public indecency."

"You would never."

"No, because they'd probably throw the two of you in the same cell and God knows what would happen then."

Sherlock stepped past John to retrieve his coat. Once he had it on, it was easier to force his mind back to the case. He handed Lestrade the Crawfords' laptop so he could return it to the evidence technician. 

Lestrade was visibly disappointed to hear that it held no secure information and certainly wasn't hiding a secret connection to Moriarty. "Well, we've got our people scouring the neighbourhood. Maybe they'll find him holed up there still."

Sherlock thought it unlikely, but didn't know what else they could do besides sit and wait for Moriarty's next move. Which was infuriating. He motioned to John that they were leaving, and John followed him out of the office. At least this time he didn't stop to talk to every person he saw on the way.

Once they were in the cab headed home, John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and asked, his voice low, "How do you do that?" 

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned from looking out the window and moved closer to him, making it easier for them to hold hands.

"How do you pretend that it doesn't bother you that they walked in on us? I've seen you be self-conscious about sex stuff before, but just now you turned it into a joke and weren't embarrassed at all. How?"

Sherlock shrugged. "What else was I supposed to do? Of course, I would have preferred not to be caught in flagrante, but once it happened...." He shrugged again. John was right. He could be self-conscious about sex at times—they'd certainly learned that at rehab last year—but today.... "It wasn't embarrassing. It was thrilling."

"Thrilling?"

"Don't you think?" 

"Not especially."

"Really?" Public sex was always a gamble. They'd never been caught before, but today certainly wouldn't stop him from trying it again. He was surprised John didn't feel the same way, given his penchant for danger. "Was it because you were sucking my cock? Would it have been less embarrassing for you if it were the other way round?"

"What? No, that's not it at all. It's just...private. All of it."

"All right. So we won't ever do anything like that in public again."

"Er, I'm not saying that."

"Of course you're not." Sherlock laughed. "It's dangerous—there's risk involved. Of course you'll want to do it again."

"You—" John tipped his head and looked up at him; Sherlock could see him fighting not to grin.

Sherlock nodded. "We'll do it again." 

John squeezed his hand. "Okay, but next time a little warning would be appreciated."

"Warning?"

"You always know everything. Are you telling me you couldn't predict that Greg and Sally were going to walk in on us?"

"I was a bit distracted." Sherlock glanced out the window to see where they were. "With this traffic, we've got a good quarter hour before we get home. Want to try again?"

John pulled his hand free and thumped his closed fist against Sherlock's thigh. "No, I do not. Tonight. At home. In bed, with all the curtains closed and the lights off, where no one can see us." 

"All right. I guess I've had enough exposure for today."

Sherlock spent the evening stretched out on the sofa, reviewing the case in his mind, trying to see what he'd missed and wondering what Moriarty's next move would be, if in fact he did have a next move planned. _He didn't break out of prison just so he could send me a package._ But what his motivation may have been, Sherlock didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.

He didn't realise how late it was until John appeared next to him, freshly showered and ready for bed.

"Come on, enough sulking," John said. 

"I'm not sulking. I'm thinking."

"Come to bed with me, hm?" John raised his eyebrows at him. "Let me finish what I started earlier."

Sherlock shook himself out of his torpor and sat up. "You don't have to do that."

"I know, but I want to." He tilted his head toward the bedroom and gestured at Sherlock to stand, so Sherlock did, following him through the flat toward the bedroom. 

They'd only made it halfway through the kitchen before Sherlock noticed the way John was moving, each push of his chair shorter than his usual smooth motions. "You all right?"

John stopped and turned to look at him, questioning.

"You're moving a little stiffly."

"Yeah, just—" John shook out his arms. "Little sore from earlier."

For a brief moment Sherlock thought John meant their dalliance in Lestrade's office had made his arms sore, then he remembered what else they'd done that day. "Oh, from the crutches this morning?"

"Yeah. I'm not used to using them for that long. Rough on my shoulders. And I've got a few new blisters." He raised his hands, though Sherlock wasn't close enough to see any detail.

"You should've worn your gloves."

"Didn't think about it until it was too late."

 _Definitely my fault he's uncomfortable now._ "Thank you for coming with me. I know...." Sherlock trailed off.

John shrugged. "Wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Not going to do it again anytime soon, though." He turned around again and led them the rest of the way to the bedroom.

John clicked on the small lamp and Sherlock dropped down on the bed. "If you're sore, you really don't have to—"

"Oh, just shut up and let me suck your cock again, all right?"

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "We could do something else, something for you to enjoy, too."

"Nah, I'm good. Just you tonight."

Sherlock bit at his lip before nodding and starting to undress. In the old days, before he'd been hurt, John might have said the same thing, but once they'd started he inevitably would've been aroused enough to change his mind. Now, though, Sherlock knew John probably wouldn't get hard unless one of them was touching him directly. He glanced over at the nightstand that held a variety of toys and a bottle of Viagra, but refrained from suggesting anything. John could be testy when he thought Sherlock was trying to manage his sex life for him. 

Now that they weren't under threat of being discovered and possibly arrested, John took his time. When they were finished, his only request for himself was a glass of water, which Sherlock fetched for him despite his inclination to roll over and fall asleep immediately. 

"So did it work this time? Did you figure out the case?" John asked, after he'd gulped half the water and they were stretched out in bed together.

"Mm-hmm." Sherlock rolled so he was lying half on top of John. "Moriarty killed the Crawfords because they refused to have sex with him. You sure you don't want me to do anything for you?"

"No, I have to work tomorrow." John yawned and shoved at Sherlock's chest until he rolled off him again. "I need to get some sleep."

"Sleep's boring," Sherlock said, but made no move to get out of bed himself. He watched John burrow into his pillows and let his mind drift, quite pleased with how the day had ended, even if he wasn't any closer to catching Moriarty.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning/SPOILER: This chapter does depict a family, including two children, that Moriarty has harmed. I personally don't consider it to be very graphic (they were poisoned) but you may want to skip the part where Sherlock enters the house if this may bother you. I would say it's not any more graphic than the show itself.

The next morning Sherlock dragged himself out of bed so he could eat breakfast with John. It was far too early, but John was already dressed for work in a blazer and khakis, his hair carefully combed into place. Sherlock slumped in a chair at the kitchen table and watched him pack himself a lunch. Sherlock poked at a piece of toast and debated asking him to stay home, but after dragging him to the Crawfords' flat yesterday and then failing to solve the case, he suspected John wouldn't appreciate it if he insisted that he needed him around again today.

Normally, Sherlock didn't mind too much when John went to work, since most days he could content himself with an experiment or cases that were easily solved from the sofa. But today promised nothing but an endless re-hashing of the facts of the case in an effort to suss out a connection between the Crawfords and Moriarty so he could predict Moriarty's next move. That work would hold much more appeal if John stayed here with him, instead of going off to his own job. _It's not as if he really needs to work. I have enough money for us both to live comfortably._

 _Work. Money._ John didn't actually need to work, and neither did Sherlock, for that matter, because they had his family's money at their disposal, but most people didn't have that luxury. Most people did need to work to support their lifestyle. Most people—"Oh. Oh! That's it!" He sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. 

John looked up from slathering mustard on his sandwich. "Do you want me to make you one, too?"

"No, their lifestyle! How could the Crawfords have possibly supported their lifestyle?"

John ran his finger along the mustard knife and then licked it off, staring at him, but Sherlock didn't let himself be distracted.

"Amy Crawford was a school teacher. Christopher had an office job that paid even less than what she made."

"Okay...."

"How did they afford to go on all those holidays? The pictures they had on display showed just the two of them, so they weren't traveling with wealthy relatives, and their siblings and nieces and nephews in the other photos didn't look particularly well-off. So where did they get their money? Oh, how could I have been so slow? It was right in front of me."

"Right." John dropped the knife into the sink.

Sherlock stood up and stepped around the table with the intention of planting a kiss on John's head, but John reached up and stopped him before his lips made contact. "Don't mess up my hair. I don't have time to fix it again before I need to leave."

Sherlock pursed his lips in displeasure, but the rejection wasn't enough to dampen his mood. He snatched the apple John had washed for his lunch and bit into it, appetite suddenly flaring. "One of the Crawfords must have worked for Moriarty," he said, words a bit garbled around his mouthful of apple.

"But you went through their computer with all their financial records and didn't see any connection, right?"

Sherlock swallowed and wiped a bit of the apple's juice from his chin. "No, but Moriarty's been in prison for years. I just need to go back further in their records. They might not be obvious, but I should be able to trace any payments he made to them before he was arrested. God, how could I not have realised that I needed to go back further?"

"You've been focusing pretty hard on this case." John plucked another apple from the bowl on the worktop and rinsed it under the tap. "Sometimes that makes it easy to overlook the obvious."

"Not for me, it's doesn't."

"Mycroft didn't figure it out, either."

"True." Sherlock grinned.

John smiled back at him. "Come here and give me a real kiss. I have to get going or I'll be late."

Sherlock complied, and when he was done John wiped at his own mouth. "You're a bit sticky from that apple."

"You've never complained before."

John's smile widened as he tucked his lunch bag into his work satchel. "I'm glad you finally figured out the connection with Moriarty. I feel a lot less guilty about going to work now."

Sherlock waved his hand. Not only did he now feel better about John leaving, but he was also relieved that the Crawfords weren't random victims who had died only because Moriarty wanted to send him a pair of wedding rings.

Once John was gone, Sherlock phoned Mycroft rather than texting him, which in itself was a good indication of how much his mood had improved. Working together, they quickly traced both Crawfords' entire employment histories. Christopher had been in a series of low-paying office jobs for four years, with three different employers. Before that, he'd worked for a company called Moran Productions. On the surface it appeared to be a television production company, but a little digging showed it had no physical offices and had never filmed even a single scene.

Crawford had been paid a tidy monthly sum by Moran Productions for six years, with the last payment coming two months after Moriarty had been convicted and sent to Sherrinford. Mycroft found records of similar payments to over a dozen other people, going back at least ten years. Sherlock spent the rest of the day on his laptop—on four laptops, actually—helping Mycroft track down all of those who had worked for the company.

He got caught up enough in the task that he didn't notice how much time had passed, until Stone alerted him that John was home by running to the lift a few seconds before Sherlock heard it moving. He unfolded himself from his spot on the floor, closed and stacked the laptops so they'd be out of John's way, and went to wait with Stone for John's arrival.

As soon as the doors opened, he began to talk, updating John on the progress he and Mycroft had made since this morning. "We connected fourteen names to Moriarty. Mycroft's people have rounded up eleven of them already. One of the others died three years ago, one's in Mountjoy Prison, and one emigrated to Canada two years ago, so the police there are going to—"

"Stone, hang on a second." John pushed the dog away. "I'll take you out in a minute. Sorry, Sherlock. I'm listening."

Sherlock called Stone to his side so John could get into the flat. John dropped his work bag to the floor next to the sofa and crossed the room to plug his phone into the charger on the desk. Sherlock let go of Stone and drew a breath to resume his tale of what he had learned that day, but before he got the chance, the phone in his pocket buzzed against his chest. John's phone dinged at the same time, the vibration amplified by the wooden desk. Sherlock frowned, wondering who would text them both at the same time, and then his phone trilled again, this time with an email notification. The sound was once more echoed on John's mobile, and a moment later both of their ringtones announced calls, and, even more ominously, the old landline phone began to ring, much louder than either of their mobiles.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, briefly locking eyes with John before he looked at it. John nodded once, then reached past his ringing mobile to hit the speakerphone button on the landline.

There was a short burst of staticky feedback and then a voice came through the phone, soft and lilting. "Hi, Sherlock. Hello, Johnny. Did you miss me?"

Sherlock took two running strides across the room, catching himself on the back of the chair at the desk, his own mobile clattering to the floor. He leaned forward toward the phone. "Moriarty."

"The one and only. Were you expecting someone else?"

Sherlock glanced at John, then cut his eyes to John's mobile. John grabbed it and began to type.

Assured that John would get Mycroft to trace the call, Sherlock refocused his attention on Moriarty. "I knew I'd hear from you eventually," he said. "Didn't expect quite so many points of contact all at once."

Moriarty giggled. "I was afraid you wouldn't notice if I sent just one message. Seems like you've been overlooking quite a few things lately."

Sherlock scowled and looked over at John again, trying to tell if he'd reached Mycroft yet.

Moriarty kept talking. "I'm disappointed, Sherlock. You've been very slow."

"I have not been slow," Sherlock said. "I've been taking my time. Your games aren't as entertaining as you think they are, and I have better things to do with my time."

"No, you don't." Moriarty laughed again, and his voice sing-songed higher. "You've slowed down since I've been gone. You let yourself go, and now you and poor Johnny just...sit around all day, doing nothing."

Sherlock flinched at the dig; John's only reaction was a flare of his nostrils. He kept his gaze on the phone in his hand, twirling the first finger of his free hand in the air to indicate that Sherlock should keep the conversation going.

Sherlock gathered himself, trying to keep his voice light and even. "I was quick enough to track down your former employees before you could kill any more of them."

"Were you, though? Are you sure you found them all?" Moriarty's grin was audible. "You didn't miss any?"

Sherlock brought his hands up to his head and tugged as his own hair, mind racing as he tried to determine if he might have missed someone or if Moriarty was simply trying to bait him.

"Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock. My dear. You only found the ones I let you find."

"You're lying." _He has to be._

"Am I?" There was a pause, then Sherlock's phone buzzed against the floor. He bent to retrieve it from where it had fallen beneath the desk. Moriarty had sent him another text, this one with a photo attached, blurred for a second until it downloaded all the way.

"Keith Dreyer." Moriarty named the man in the picture. "At least, that's the name he used to use. He worked for me directly. I didn't pay him through Moran Productions because I trusted him. I trusted him, Sherlock! But he didn't wait for me while I was away, so—" He made a whistling noise, then continued. "He's got a whole family: a wife, a couple of cute kids. I think there used to be a dog, but it must have died while I was away. Too bad."

Sherlock's phone buzzed again and a picture of Dreyer with a woman and two young children appeared. "Hope you're not too late!" Moriarty said, and ended the call, leaving only a chilling silence in his wake.

Sherlock gritted his teeth at his mobile screen, then caught his breath when a third photo appeared. "He's given us a clue."

"Let me see." John craned his neck and Sherlock tapped on the screen to enlarge it and then tilted the phone toward him. A well-maintained, semi-detached house filled the screen, the edges of neighbouring homes just visible to either side.

Sherlock knew the style of the fence that fronted it, and the slight bend to the tree at the edge of the property looked familiar as well. _So familiar—where is it? Where is it?_ He squeezed his eyes shut, expanding the view in his mind. "Got it!" He typed out a quick message to Mycroft and Lestrade and forwarded the photos, then dropped the phone back into his pocket. "Come on, John! It's less than a mile. We can get there faster than anyone else."

"We—" John began, then stopped. "Yeah, all right." He looked down at his own phone again. "Mycroft didn't get a lock on where the call came from, but if we can get to Dreyer's house before—do you think Moriarty's there now?"

"Probably not." Sherlock darted across the room to hit the button for the lift while John apologised to Stone for not taking him out for a walk. Sherlock nudged the dog out of the way so they could get into the lift without him, silently cursing the loss of time compared to taking the stairs.

Once outside, they made much better time. Sherlock led the way, calculating the shortest route with the least amount of foot traffic at this time of day. They got caught at one intersection, until Sherlock threw his hand up to stop traffic and they raced across the road, John easily keeping pace with his stride. Two more blocks and Sherlock recognised the street from Moriarty's text. He pulled his phone from his pocket and compared the row of nearly identical-looking houses until he found a match.

"That one!" He took off toward it, stopping only when he reached the chest-high metal gate that blocked access to the property's garden. His inclination was to swing himself up and over it, but he made himself take the time to reach over the top and unfasten the latch so John could follow. He swung the gate open and rushed through it, skidding to a halt again a few feet later. Four steps up to the front door, steep and narrow: he'd have to help John wrestle his chair up them.

He glanced back and John waved a hand at him. "Just go! Don't worry about me."

Sherlock nodded and took the steps in one long stride. He tried the door handle. Locked, of course, and he'd run out of the flat without his coat, which held his lockpicks. He put his shoulder to the door to test its strength. _Too solid._ He'd have to find another way to get in.

He glanced to his right; he would have to stand in a bush, but he should be able to reach one of the windows. Before he could try, he heard a series of thumping noises coming from behind the door, and a moment later the sound of a deadbolt snicking open. He tensed, readying himself to face whoever was on the other side, and wishing he'd thought to have John grab his gun before they'd raced over here.

A full two seconds passed without the door opening, so Sherlock reached out and turned the knob himself, slowly pushing the door open. When he met with resistance, he gave it a shove and was rewarded with a faint, grunting cry. Someone was behind the door. He and John weren't too late. _Assuming it's one of Dreyer's family members, and not Moriarty himself, playing victim._ He pushed at the door again, trying to open it enough to squeeze through. "Let us in. We're here to help."

The weight against the door shifted, and Sherlock stepped into the house, still cautious. The vestibule was poorly lit, but enough light came through the door and narrow window above it that he could see a small, dark-haired girl slumped on the floor. She reached up toward him with one hand, but her whole arm was shaking and she could only lift it partway. She tried to speak, but he couldn't understand what she was trying to say—whatever was affecting her limbs had robbed her ability to speak clearly, as well.

He grimaced and squatted down next to her, unable to keep himself from asking what happened, though her answer was again too slurred to be intelligible.

"Give her to me." John was still outside on the pavement, but he was certainly better equipped to tend to an injured— _drugged?_ —child than Sherlock was.

He adjusted his position so he could get his arms under the girl's shoulders and waist and lift her—she was bigger than she had been in the photo Moriarty had sent, but still weighed very little. He guessed she was about eight years old, and weighed perhaps four stone at the most.

She tried to speak again and kicked out with one leg as he lifted her, but she was too small and weak to stop him. He pushed the door open wider with his foot and stepped outside to pass her into John's waiting arms. "It's okay. He's a doctor." The statement didn't seem to have much effect, but he didn't know what else might comfort a child of that age.

"Mummy!" the girl shouted, the word clearer than anything else she'd said, and waved one arm in the general direction of the house, nearly swatting Sherlock in the face with the motion.

"Is your mummy inside?" John asked, cradling her on his lap with one arm while his free hand went to her neck to check her pulse. He lifted his gaze to Sherlock. "Go! I'll take care of her."

Sherlock nodded once and then ran back into the house. He made a quick circuit of the ground floor, spotting nothing of import other than the remnants of a meal sat on the kitchen table. _Poisoning, then._ He returned to the front hall and ran up the staircase; if the whole family had fallen ill after eating they would most likely have retired upstairs to the bedrooms.

He was right: the entire first floor reeked of illness. The door to the loo was open, and a woman about his own age was sprawled on the floor amid a mess of vomit. Her hair was a different colour than that of the woman in Moriarty's photo, but he was sure it was the same person. Based on the discoloration of her face where it touched the tile floor, she had clearly been dead for at least a couple of hours. He went on to the next room, a small bedroom with a large bed, upon which a middle-aged man lay on his side, arms curled loosely around a boy smaller than the girl downstairs.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and entered the room, which smelled nearly as bad as the loo. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and could tell with a touch that he'd been dead for more than an hour. He walked around the bed to check on the boy, a child thin enough that Sherlock suspected he would have looked sickly even under normal circumstances. He was warmer to the touch than his father, but just as dead. Sherlock could see the man's face now—he was a little older and plumper than he had been in Moriarty's photo, but it was definitely Keith Dreyer.

Sherlock pushed back a stray surge of emotion—why should he care if Dreyer was dead? The man had worked for Moriarty for years; he'd brought this upon himself. _His family didn't ask for it, though._ Sherlock ran his hand down the boy's face to his neck, checking for a pulse, just in case, but there was nothing. Only the girl downstairs was still alive—he hoped John would be able to keep her that way until the ambulance arrived.

Sherlock made a quick pass through the rest of the house to make sure no one else was there, then went back outside. He could hear sirens approaching from opposite directions, but none were in sight yet. John still had the girl on his lap, her legs hanging over one wheel of his chair, her upper body cradled in the crook of his arm. He had loosened the collar of the school uniform shirt she wore and was speaking softly to her, though her eyes were closed as if asleep.

John looked up at him and Sherlock caught a flash of fear, quickly schooled into an unspoken question about what he had found inside. Sherlock shook his head and John's lips pinched for a second before he turned his attention back to the girl in his arms.

Sherlock stood watching him for a moment, feeling awkwardly helpless, then went out to the kerb to await the paramedics. The police arrived first, not Lestrade but a pair of uniformed officers who were not at all familiar but who recognised him and John.

After a brief explanation of the situation, Sherlock led the officers into the house. When he came back outside, two paramedics had taken over from John and were in the process of loading the girl into the back of an ambulance. He was too far away to see if she had opened her eyes.

Sherlock joined John on the pavement just outside the gate. He nodded toward the ambulance. "Is she going to—"

"Don't know." John's shoulders were drawn up tight; Sherlock wanted to point out that he would be sore later tonight but thought the tension was probably merited at the moment. "Did you see anything in the house that might tell what happened to her?" John asked.

"They'd eaten a meal together."

John nodded. "She—" He cut himself off, abruptly spun his chair around in a half circle, and leaned over to vomit onto a patch of grass surrounding a small street tree. He stayed bent over for several moments before straightening up, shoulders bunched even more tightly than they'd been before.

"Sorry." John wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, prompting Sherlock to dig in his pocket for a handkerchief, which John accepted with another apology.

"It's all right," Sherlock said. "Are you okay?" He'd never known John to react so emotionally to a patient or to a crime scene.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just—" John paused again, looking down at his own fist clenched around the borrowed handkerchief. "I was holding her, and she kept flailing her legs, but then she stopped, and...." After a moment he took a deep breath and went on. "I know Moriarty used botulinum as a poison before, but I think tetrodotoxin is a better fit given the pattern of paralysis she exhibited."

 _Ah. That explains his reaction._ Of course holding the girl while she'd progressively lost the use of her limbs had disturbed him, though he'd now managed to shift back into objective doctor mode.

"Tetrodotoxin is the poison found in puffer fish. Most cases are accidental and the victims don't ingest enough to be fatal, but with a deliberate poisoning like this, and if it was enough to kill the rest of the family...her chances aren't good."

"Is there an antidote?"

"Not that I know of. And it's probably too late for gastric lavage to do any good."

Sherlock hesitated, then said, "I vomited when you got hurt, while they were getting you into the ambulance."

John squinted up at him. "You did?"

"Mm-hmm." He wasn't particularly eager to dredge up the memory, but it had seemed the right thing to say at the moment.

"I can barely remember anything from that day," John said. "I know...Sally Donovan was there, and I was cold. You covered me with your coat."

He hadn't realised John didn't have a full memory of what had happened. They'd never talked about it in detail, and he didn't particularly want to have that conversation now. "Let's go home."

"In a minute." John exhaled and wadded Sherlock's handkerchief into the pocket of his trousers, then gestured over his shoulder toward the ambulance. "Let me go tell them what I think about the poison, save them some time at the hospital."

While John went to talk to the paramedics, Sherlock pulled out his phone to update Mycroft on the situation. He looked up when a car slowed and then stopped at the kerb behind the ambulance, expecting to see Lestrade or another detective from his division. It wasn't. It was a reporter, popping out of the car as if she thought she was about to break the news story of the century. No camera person with her, though—that was one small mercy, at least.

She hadn't seen him yet, but was between him and John. Sherlock could escape back into the house, or turn around and head home toward Baker Street, but John wasn't going to be able to avoid her. Sherlock put his head down and began walking toward him, knowing he had no chance of not being recognised by the reporter.

She saw him almost immediately. "Mr. Holmes!" She ran a few steps toward him, then stopped to push her hair back into place. "I've been informed that James Moriarty has escaped from prison and has now killed at least five people. Will you make a statement?"

The specificity of her statement surprised him. _Moriarty must have called her himself—the police didn't know how many victims there were until a few minutes ago._ "It's a police matter," he said, continuing to walk toward John. "You'll have to speak to them."

"But you were called in to help them, weren't you? Tell us what you saw in this house today?"

"He has no comment."

The reporter spun around to face John, thrusting her voice recorder toward him. "But you can confirm that Moriarty is out of prison and behind these murders?"

"The victim I saw appeared to be suffering from a severe case of food poisoning," John said. He turned away from her and glanced up at Sherlock. "You ready to go?"

The reporter was not deterred. "Are you afraid he's going to target the two of you next?"

"We have no comment at this time," John said, without looking at her. Sherlock stepped to his side and they began to move together, forcing the reporter to step back to allow them to pass. 

Sherlock heard more police sirens approaching as they walked away. Without turning around, he dropped one hand to rest on John's shoulder and waved the other in the direction of the sound. "I'm sure the police will be happy to answer all your questions. We have no information on the case and no interest in what Moriarty might do next." He had a moment's regret that he wasn't wearing his coat so he could make it flare out dramatically behind him.

The reporter must have believed that the police were more likely to answer her questions, because she turned her attention to them. Sherlock hoped Lestrade and Donovan arrived soon—they deserved to have to put up with her inane questions after interrupting him and John yesterday at the Yard.

His phone beeped before he and John had gone very far. He pulled it from his pocket, expecting to hear from Mycroft, but the text he'd received was from the same number Moriarty had used earlier.

_\--So sorry you had to deal with that reporter after watching that little girl die. Must have been hard. Hope Johnny's okay! He's so fragile these days, isn't he? -JM_

As soon as he'd read it, Sherlock stabbed at the screen to delete the text, wondering how Moriarty was watching them. He probably wouldn't have risked staying nearby himself, though maybe he was that reckless. _Cameras, most likely._ Sherlock refused to turn around and try to spot them—he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Instead he reached out to touch John's arm again, stopping him, then when John looked up questioningly, he bent over to kiss him.

Ideally he would have liked to slide into John's lap and give Moriarty an eyeful, but he knew John wouldn't be as willing to put on a show in public. But he was surprised when John didn't even open his mouth to return his kiss. After a few moments, Sherlock pulled back and raised an eyebrow in question.

John lowered his head, briefly brought a hand up to his mouth. "Yeah, sorry. Not that I don't appreciate it, but I did just throw up and I feel kind of disgusting."

"Oh. Sorry." Sherlock straightened up and took a step back. 

John shook his head. "It's okay. Let's go home. I'll brush my teeth and we can take Stone for a walk and we can kiss in the middle of the park if you want."

"Hm, I was going to suggest we should text Mrs. Hudson to take Stone for his walk so we could go have dinner together somewhere."

"I'd love to have dinner with you but—"

"Yes, yes. I understand." Sherlock stuck his hands into the pockets of his trousers and sighed. "Teeth brushing is paramount. Then, dinner?"

"Starving," John replied, with a small smile.

Sherlock grinned back at him, then turned around and waved at the cameras Moriarty probably had pointed at them. _He can watch us all he wants, but he's not going to like what he sees._


	6. Chapter 6

John went to work again the next day, and Sherlock got a text from Molly about ninety minutes after he left. Which was exactly the amount of time it took him to get out of bed, shower, get dressed, dry his hair, drink two cups of coffee and realise he was at a loss what to do today other than sit around and wait for Moriarty to make his next move. Obviously, John had arranged to have Molly text him at precisely that time. He tried to resent the fact that John found him so predictable, but it was actually rather reassuring. 

He spent most of the day at Barts. The little girl they'd found at the Dreyer house yesterday was still unconscious but alive; the bodies of the rest of the family had arrived at the morgue for autopsies. Molly wouldn't let him perform them, so he settled for critiquing her technique and stealing crisps from her desk drawer every time she got distracted. She did let him test Keith Dreyer's stomach contents after she'd done a visual examination, and he found that John had been right about the type of poison, not that Sherlock had doubted him. Moriarty had added the tetrodotoxin to their pasta dinner; it was potent enough that the small amount used would not have been detectable amid the flavours in the sauce.

The autopsies didn't reveal much that Sherlock hadn't already known, but they did help make the day go by quickly. He left the hospital around the time he expected John to get home, but when he got there, John wasn't back yet. Not unusual, given that he often stayed late at the clinic, but Stone wasn't happy about having been left alone all day, so Sherlock clipped his lead on and took him across the street to the park. They lingered for longer than Sherlock wanted—Stone was used to being walked by John, who tended to spoil him by talking to other people while Stone got to sniff and play with their dogs.

Much as he thought they were wasting time in the park, Sherlock had to admit that they had perfect timing when they finally got back to Baker Street. Just as they arrived, a cab pulled up in front of 221 and Stone began to bark, trying to pull Sherlock into traffic as they watched John emerge from the car.

By the time they made it across the street, John had paid the driver and was settled into his chair. He reached back into the cab to grab his bag. "Here hold this." He thrust a small, stalky potted plant into Sherlock's free hand.

"What—" Sherlock paused as Stone tried to pull free from his grip, and had to shift the plant into the crook of his elbow so he could use both hands on the lead. "Here, take him. He wants you, but he's just been to the park so don't fall for his begging." He passed Stone off to John, then waved the plant in his direction. "And what the hell is this supposed to be?"

"A tomato plant. Obviously," John said. "Be careful with it, please. I'd like to have at least a fighting chance at not killing it."

Sherlock frowned and glanced up at the narrow ledge outside the windows of their flat, and the half-dozen empty pots that lined it. They'd never had much luck keeping anything green alive. "I can see that it's a tomato plant." His mother had grown a robust vegetable garden, and while he'd deleted some of the plant names, tomatoes were in the nightshade family, and thus their theoretical toxicity made it worthwhile for him to retain them. "Why do you have it?"

"I'm going to see if I can grow some tomatoes. Come on, Stone, this way." John tugged at the lead and Stone turned away from the street and trotted back toward their flat. "They self-pollinate, so we should be able to get some, even with only one plant." He pointed to one of the branches. "See, it's got some little yellow flowers already."

Sherlock opened the door to the building and held it so John and Stone could enter. "But where did it come from?" _Was he suddenly seized with an urge to visit a garden centre?_ It would explain why he was late coming home, but he'd never shown any interest in buying plants before now.

"Mary gave it to me." John dropped Stone's lead once they were in the building and Stone walked over to the lift and sat down in front of it.

"Mary?" He wrinkled his nose and watched John pick up the stack of post that Mrs. Hudson had sorted for them and left on the table in the hall. "Why?"

"I just told you. I thought I'd see if I could grow some tomatoes."

"So you asked your nurse to give you a tomato plant?"

John looked up from the post and stared at him. "Sherlock, are you jealous?"

"What?" Sherlock shifted the plant to his left hand and stabbed at the button for the lift. "Of course not. Why would I be jealous of a plant?"

"I don't know."

"Just because some woman you spend all day with gives you a present, why would that make me jealous?"

"Oh, God, Sherlock." John laughed. "You went to Barts and spent all day with Molly, didn't you? Should I be jealous, too?"

"Molly wouldn't give me even a single body part to take home." He stepped back to let John get into the lift first, then followed him in, nudging Stone so they would all fit. "And I knew you were the reason she texted me this morning. Do you really think I need someone to supervise me when you're not around?"

"It wasn't—I was trying to do you a favour. So you wouldn't be bored, or get antsy sitting home alone just waiting to see what Moriarty might do next."

"I am capable of entertaining myself, occasionally."

"All right. Sorry." John's lips twisted for a moment, then he waved his hand at the dog. "And I guess you have Stone to keep you company, too."

"And now I have this plant." Sherlock raised it as he stepped out of the lift ahead of John.

"If it makes you feel any better, I didn't ask Mary for a plant. She said she had too many this year and didn't have enough room for them. Sarah and Robby and Sharon all took one, too." 

Sherlock frowned at him, watching as he unclipped Stone's lead and dumped the stack of post on the small table next to his armchair. It didn't really bother him that John would accept such a gift from his nurse, at least not beyond the low-level, nagging fear he always had that, one day, John would come to his senses and realise what he had given up by throwing his lot in with Sherlock. Still, it was reassuring to know Mary hadn't singled out John in her gift-giving. "Fine," he said, thrusting the pot toward John. "Just don't expect me to take care of it for you. I don't even like tomatoes." 

"You like tomato sauce."

"Well, you're hardly going to be able to grow enough tomatoes for sauce with a single plant. Put it outside on the balcony."

John wrinkled his nose, then crossed to the window, twitching one of the thin curtains back for a moment. "Everything we ever put out there dies." He straightened a pile of magazines that sat on the wide windowsill and set the pot on top of them. "I'll put it here, and it'll still get sun, like a little greenhouse."

"You'll have to water it."

"Yes, I understand how plants work, thank you. Not for you." He gave Stone a light swat on the nose when the dog tried to sniff at it.

"You can't leave it there. He's going to eat it."

"No, he won't."

"Yes, he will, and the leaves are poisonous."

"He'd have to eat a whole garden full of them to do any damage."

"Are you sure about that? You're willing to risk feeding our dog nightshade just to prove a point?" Sherlock swooped up the pot and marched into the kitchen, setting it in the window next to the fridge-freezer.

John followed him. "That's hardly any higher. All of the windows in this flat are too low." He moved it from the sill to the centre of the kitchen table. "This will work." He pointed to the fluorescent light fixture overhead. "That's practically a grow lamp, and I'll remember to water it if I see it here every day."

"Hm." Sherlock sniffed. "I can't imagine why Mrs. Hudson would have installed such a light in her building." He went back out into the sitting room while John fussed over the plant some more. Stone followed him and Sherlock bent to scratch his head with one hand while he shuffled through the post that John had brought in. Most of it could go straight into the recycling pile, but he pulled out a few pieces for John to deal with: some bills, a cheque from a case they'd had last month, a couple of letters from potential clients that probably weren't worth his time. He could always tell how interesting a case was by the envelope in which it arrived. Like this one at the bottom of the stack. He lifted it from the table. High-quality, heavyweight paper addressed by a left-handed male who was younger than the usual sort who preferred using the post to sending email. But this letter had no postmark; it had been hand-delivered. _Oh._

"John." Sherlock turned back toward the kitchen. "He's made another delivery."

"Who, Moriarty?" John looked up from the tomato plant. "Well. Doesn't look like that holds any body parts, at least."

"No." Sherlock let the envelope slip from one hand to the other and back again. "More than just a single sheet of paper, though." He held it up to the light over John's head, frowning when it failed to reveal what was inside. _Nothing to do but open it._ He slipped a finger beneath the seal and tore it open, revealing a plain sheet of white paper folded around several pages that had been ripped from a journal.

The top sheet had a handwritten note scrawled across it, the same writing as on the envelope, dark and sloping. _—Hey Sherlock! Ran across this article and thought you might find it of interest! — xoxo, JM_

He unfolded the pages that were tucked behind the note and saw that they were an article from _JAMA Internal Medicine_ , published in March of last year: “Cumulative Use of Strong Anticholinergics and Incident Dementia: A Prospective Cohort Study.” A queasy feeling began to curl through his gut as he read the abstract.

"What is it?" John came out of the kitchen, lifting his chin to get a glimpse of the article in Sherlock's hand. "Oh, hang on. Don't read that—" He reached out as if to snatch the papers away, but Sherlock raised them out of his reach.

"Why-" He lifted his gaze to John's face and his thoughts stuttered as he interpreted the expression he saw there. "You—you knew about this."

"No, I just—" John dropped his hands to the wheels of his chair and exhaled before nodding. "Yeah, I did. I saw the study last summer, a few months after it came out."

Sherlock's whole body had gone cold. "You've known for nearly a year that I've been risking my memory and you didn't tell me about it?" 

"You haven't been—it's not—Sherlock, calm down."

"Calm down? John!" He waved the papers in the air, still not letting John take them from him. "This says that the antidepressant I've been taking causes dementia!"

"No, it definitely does not say that," John said, a tiny, nervous chuckle bubbling faintly beneath his words. "Here, let me see it. I'll show you."

"I know how to read a medical study!" He clenched the papers in both hands, crumpling them, then took a step to the side so he could collapse into John's armchair. _What if it's too late—what if the damage is already done?_

"Okay, then." John held his hands out as if he thought that would placate him. "So read it."

"This is a long-term study in a well-respected, peer-reviewed medical journal!"

"Yes, it is. And you'll see that it says not everyone who takes it develops dementia."

"But it raises the risk!"

"In elderly patients who took high dosages over many years."

John's calm tone was infuriating; he wasn't dealing with one of his patients here. Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to keep his voice even and low. "My grandmother had Alzheimer's."

"Okay. Just—stop it. Don't jump to conclusions, okay? I read the whole article, and poked around a little online, and there's no reason for you to be concerned."

"No, nothing to be concerned about, just early-onset Alzheimer's Disease."

"No. No. Stop right there. There is nothing about early-onset anything in that paper. I know there isn't. It was a study of senior citizens over age 65. Not a word about 40-year-olds. Bodies process drugs differently at different ages."

"Just because they didn't study younger patients doesn't mean it wouldn't have the same effect." Sherlock stared at him, knowing John would have an answer to anything he said but also knowing that he himself was right. "You should have told me."

John's mouth opened and then closed. He looked down and sighed. "I just...didn't want you to overreact."

The coldness that filled him was slowly being replaced with rage, but he tamped it down lest John use that as evidence against him. "Overreact?"

"You'd only been on the meds for a few months when I first saw the study. Everything was still kind of...." John trailed off and swallowed, and Sherlock could see that he wasn't enjoying this conversation at all, either. "I didn't want you to decide you were going to stop taking them then, when things were finally starting to get back to normal."

Sherlock made himself breathe slowly for a few seconds, then continued, calmer than he had been. "All right, but that was last summer. Why haven't you said anything since then?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't really think about it much. Plus, you've been doing so well on them.... I mean, I never expected you to keep taking them forever."

"I shouldn't have been taking them at all."

"Not true. That is not true. You know they've been helping."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't reply. _What does it matter that I'm not depressed if I can't even remember who I am?_

"Don't you dare stop taking them. Not again. Not now."

"When? Before or after I've forgotten what year it is?"

"Sherlock. That's not going to happen. You're on a low dose, lower than those in the study. After we get through this...whatever it is, with Moriarty, then we'll figure out what to do about your meds. Decide if you should keep taking them, or see what other options you might have."

"Oh, we'll see if I have other options, will we?" Sherlock let his voice fill with bitterness, and slumped back in the armchair.

John moved closer and put one hand on Sherlock's knee, his touch light and hesitant. "Hey, now think about it for a minute. Moriarty sent you this study to get you to react like this, all right? Don't let him rile you up."

Sherlock blinked his eyes closed for a few seconds and didn't stop John from taking the papers out of his hands. He was right; Moriarty was trying to provoke a reaction. That didn't mean John should have kept this a secret from him, or that he shouldn't be concerned about what the study said. He brought his feet up onto the chair and wrapped his arms around his legs.

John cleared his throat as if in preparation for continuing the conversation, but before he could say anything, Sherlock's phone began to ring. Sherlock made no move to answer it. "It's just Mycroft," he said, voice muffled by the fact that his face was still pressed against his knees.

"So answer it. What if it's about the case?"

He pulled his head back slightly to speak. "Of course it's about the case. I'm tired of the case." He rested his head on his knees once more.

"God, don't be such a—" John snaked a hand into the huddle of Sherlock's body and pulled the phone from his jacket pocket. Sherlock let him. John deserved to have to deal with Mycroft right now. "Please tell me you have some good news," John said, by way of greeting.

Sherlock lifted his head enough to watch him talk, though John had turned away when he'd answered the phone.

"Okay, but why did it take so long?....Yes, I know. All right.... Wait, where? That's—" He turned and met Sherlock's eyes. "Okay, we're on our way there now." He turned off the phone and tossed it toward Sherlock, who dropped his feet to the ground and caught it without a second thought.

"Come on. Get up." John whacked him on the knee with the back of one hand. "Mycroft's people identified where Moriarty's phone was yesterday when he called us."

"Finally." He tucked his phone back into his pocket. "What took them so long?"

"Sherlock, Moriarty made the phone calls from your therapist's office."

 _I don't have a—wait._ "Gemma?"

John nodded. "No one's been able to reach her. The police are on their way to her office now. I told Mycroft we'll meet them there."

Sherlock stood. _Moriarty went after her because of me. But why?_ He'd only been to see her twice. John had been the one who'd written the prescription for the amitriptyline, though Gemma had known about it. "Why would he—? He could have just hacked into my medical records and seen the prescription. He didn't need to track her down."

"Because he's doing as much as he can to interfere with your life. That's the reason for everything he's done."

"He killed his own employees," Sherlock said, but he knew John was right. He'd killed his former employees, yes, but then he'd sent Sherlock their wedding rings. And he knew that Moriarty had chosen the poison he used on the Dreyers specifically because it was a paralytic—and then he'd called him and John so they would arrive in time to see its effect. And now that he was done going after the people who had worked for him, it seemed he had turned his attention to Sherlock's own circle of acquaintances. "This is turning into a nightmare."

"It's been a nightmare from the beginning. Come on."

As he followed John to the lift, Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket again. Maybe it was time to let Mycroft play his favourite role of protective big brother and implement a few new security measures. He and John could handle themselves, but if the game had changed, then Mrs. Hudson, his parents, Molly, anyone he knew could be a target now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 3/19/19:  
> *Everyone is free to predict whatever they want to about the tomato plant, but just promise me you won't be disappointed when it turns out to be just a plant and nothing more sinister! It's not poisoned or booby-trapped or bugged (well unless it has aphids or something) or in any way compromised; it is just an innocent plant. (If you've read almost anything else I've written, then you probably know I'm not writing evil Mary here.)*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a long time! I did spend a week in April writing three ficlets, but otherwise I have no excuse other than sometimes I'm a very slow writer. Hope it's worth the wait!

When Sherlock and John reached Gemma's office, they were greeted by a police car with its lights flashing in the car park, and Sally Donovan in the lobby of the building. She was trying to convince a cleaning lady to unlock the door to the practice where Gemma worked, which had closed for the evening. Sherlock drew a breath, preparing to tell the woman exactly why she needed to open the door right now, but John stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Sally's got it, just give her a minute."

"A minute? Gemma could be dead right now," he said, before realising that it would then make no difference how quickly they got into the building. Thankfully, John didn't point out his lapse in logic. Sherlock grimaced as he listened to Donovan explain the situation to the cleaning woman. He knew his level of worry for Gemma was out of proportion to his usual concern for potential victims of crimes, but given that she had been the one who'd indirectly inspired him to propose to John, he thought he at least owed her a debt of gratitude. She certainly didn't deserve to be killed because of him. _But how was I to have known that Moriarty would go after her? How did he even know I had a therapist?_

It didn't take long for Donovan to get through to the cleaning lady, though he still thought making her cry would have been a more efficient and emotionally satisfying method. He pushed past the two women as soon as the door was unlocked. The windowless reception area was dark as night, but he ran into it anyway, blinking when someone behind him switched on the overhead fluorescents. Empty chairs in the waiting room, reception desk with no one behind it. A far cry from the bustling office he'd encountered the first time he'd been here, though the sense of dread that seemed to permeate the office air was all too familiar. _Is expecting to trip over the dead body of a colleague worse than the anticipation of having to discuss my emotional well-being with a stranger?_ He recoiled at the thought; though he had seen many dead people at many crime scenes, he'd rarely seen the body of someone he knew. 

_Ridiculous._ A dead body was a dead body, and he'd only met her twice. He wasn't even sure if he liked her. He strode across the room to the desk and leaned over it, ascertaining that there was nothing on the floor behind it. "Did anyone contact the office staff to ask if she showed up for work today?"

"Haven't been able to get through to anyone," Donovan said. 

Sherlock growled his displeasure. While it would be comforting to think that someone would have noticed if Moriarty had left Gemma for dead yesterday, he knew that it was just as likely that no one had bothered to check her office if she hadn't appeared this morning. He reined in his too-detailed imagination and started down the hallway. "Check them all," he barked at Sally and the two police officers with her, waving a hand at the closed doors that lined the hallway. 

Gemma's office was the last on the left. The building was old and the hallway was narrow, and it felt as if the walls got closer together the further he walked, which of course was not true; one glance at John behind him showed that though he had little clearance on either side, his wheelchair fit through the cramped space without problem. _Just an illusion caused by a poor selection of paint colours and my own overblown apprehension._

They reached her door and Sherlock put his hand on the knob— _unlocked, probably not significant, would allow the cleaning woman entry after hours._ He turned the knob and pushed open the door, revealing a room that appeared empty and undisturbed. 

He exhaled and then stepped into the office, John right behind him. Two armchairs and a sofa for clients— _patients_ —to use. One wall with windows covered by dull grey curtains, the other walls decorated with the bland wallpaper that had failed to distract him when he'd wanted it to last year. Gemma's desk. He walked over to it. The only possible hiding spot for a body would be underneath— _no_. There was nothing beneath her desk but the seat of her chair. He pulled it out and dropped down into it to think. It took a few seconds of measured breathing before he could focus his mind completely—much longer than it should have. He was allowing his emotions far too much control over this case. 

The computer on her desk was on, though hibernated. He wiggled the mouse and the screen flickered to life. His own name and health history stared back at him, complete with details of his amitriptyline prescription. Of course, that was what Moriarty had come here for, to extract information on him from his therapist. But what had he done to her? Let her live? She would have called either Sherlock or the police as soon as she was free. But if he'd killed her, then what had he done with her body? It was unlikely he'd have been able to drag her out on his own without someone noticing. _So where is she?_

"Have they checked the other offices?" he asked John.

"Hang on." John turned his chair to head back out into the hallway, returning a few moments later, shaking his head. "Nothing."

"Damn it!" Sherlock clenched his fists and pounded once on Gemma's desk. 

"And Sally says the officers who went to her flat to check haven't found anything out of the ordinary, either. It was closed up tight, nothing out of place." John shook his head again. "She must be somewhere. Maybe he kidnapped her?" 

"If he had, he would have given us a clue, made it into another game." Sherlock checked his phone to see if Moriarty had indeed contacted him again, but there were no new messages. He sighed, then noticed that beneath the layer of papers and folders on Gemma's desk lay a large desktop calendar. He shoved the papers out of the way so he could see the current week's schedule. "And no one has talked to any of her co-workers yet?"

"I don't think so," John said, just as Donovan walked through the door, confirming with a shake of her head that the answer was no.

Sherlock lifted the huge calendar, causing a cascade of pens, pencils and paper clips to fall across the desk and floor. He turned it so John and Donovan could see, tapping his finger on the yellow highlighter mark that spanned the current week.

John came closer, squinting to read the handwriting beneath the highlighting. "Mallorca? You think she's away on holiday and wasn't here when Moriarty was here yesterday?"

"That would be the obvious deduction." _Did we really rush over here for no reason?_ "Go find her mobile number. It should be somewhere at the reception desk."

"I'll do it," Donovan said, surprisingly; she wasn't normally inclined to follow his commands, so she probably just thought it was more proper for her to snoop through the office than for John to do it. 

Sherlock put the calendar down on the desk and sagged back into Gemma's chair. John glanced at him and said, "This is a nice little office Gemma has here. The cleaning lady seems fond of her, says she hopes she's all right." He turned to look at the sofa and armchairs, as if the insipid decor of the room fascinated him. "You ever think about coming back for a few more appointments?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "She might be dead."

John gave a half-shrug. "Well, yeah, or she might just be on holiday. I mean...just thought you might want to consider it." 

Sherlock frowned, knowing that John definitely would not have suggested that before today. _He's afraid I'm going to go off my meds without telling him again._ The reminder of the article from Moriarty sent a new wave of fear coursing through him. He tightened his hands on the arms of Gemma's chair and hoped John didn't press him on the topic.

Luckily, Donovan returned with Gemma's mobile number before John got the chance to say anything more. Sherlock used his own phone to call her. He wasn't certain she would answer if she was on holiday, but she picked up after three rings. "Gemma? This is Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, hi, Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"What? Me? Yes, I'm calling to see if you're okay."

"I'm out of the country right now, but if you're having an emergency we can talk for a bit or I can refer you to one of my colleagues."

"I'm not—sorry, what?" He took the phone from his ear to glare at her imbecility and Donovan grabbed it from his hand.

"Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan with the Metropolitan Police. We have reason to believe that a wanted criminal may have broken into your office yesterday. We don't believe anything was stolen or damaged, but there were concerns for your own safety."

Sherlock tuned her out. Gemma was fine. Gemma was on holiday in Mallorca; she'd probably been sitting on the beach while he and John had rushed across town thinking Moriarty had killed her. He let himself fall back against the cushion of her chair again, trying to control the panic that was still coursing through him, even though he no longer had any reason for concern. John was wrong: this wasn't a nice little office. It was a horrid, anxiety-inducing cave. _How could anyone ever feel at ease here?_ He planted his feet firmly on the floor and stood, letting the chair roll back to hit the shrouded windows. "Let's go."

John raised his eyebrows but nodded. Donovan handed him his phone back and started to say something about bringing in a forensic team to confirm that Moriarty had broken into the office, but Sherlock was out of the room before she could finish. Of course they would find evidence that Moriarty had been there. He wasn't trying to hide from them.

Sherlock swept past the other police officers and the cleaning lady and out of the building, John at his heels. He paused when he got outside, stopping at the top of the ramp to lean with both hands on the railing. He was blocking John's way, he knew, but he needed to pause for a moment to collect his thoughts. 

John put a hand on his arm. "You okay?" 

Sherlock nodded, then shook his head. "You're right." 

"Yeah, I know—wait, what I am right about?" John leaned back to look up at him.

"Moriarty. His sole objective is to interfere with my life."

"Yeah, well we won't let him, all right?"

Sherlock straightened up and waved his arm at the building behind them. "He already is. He got us to run all the way out here. I shouldn't have overreacted."

"I wouldn't say you overreacted. You had good reason to think her life was in danger."

"So? I see people's lives in danger all the time on cases. It doesn't usually faze me."

"But you know Gemma."

"Barely. I met her twice."

"And had what I can only assume were a couple of soul-baring conversations with her."

Sherlock tried to scoff at that, but knew from the way John touched his arm again that he didn't do a very convincing job. He stepped aside to let John use the ramp, but rather than following him down it himself, he turned to the short staircase next to it instead. He grabbed the railing with one hand and let himself slide down the few steps, barely lifting his feet. When he reached the bottom he sat, resting his head in his hands. It had started to drizzle while they were inside and the concrete steps were wet, but he couldn't feel it through his coat, and he didn't think he could stand up right now even if he had to. It didn't make sense that he was suddenly so physically exhausted, since he hadn't done anything beyond run a few metres into the building, but it felt like if he closed his eyes he could sleep for days.

John reached the end of the ramp and came back up the pavement to meet him. "Come on. Let's get home."

"I am. I'm trying. I'm just—" He broke off, frustrated and unsure how to even describe what he felt. 

John seemed to understand, though. "Hey, it's all right. Give yourself a break. It's natural to feel a little emotional after you've just tried to save someone's life."

Sherlock looked down at the ground between him and John. "You're the one who's in the saving people's lives business."

"Oh, I happen to know for a fact that you've saved a life or two in your time. Don't discount yourself."

"Well, I certainly didn't save anyone's life today." He almost wished Gemma had been here; if she'd been injured and they'd rescued her, maybe it would have resolved this unfocused desperation that was threatening to spin out of control.

"Come on," John repeated, though his voice was softer now. Sherlock didn't especially like his soft voice, because it meant John thought he was fragile, but he knew he deserved it right now. He just hoped Donovan didn't come out of the building before he was able to pull himself together. He closed his eyes and squeezed his hands into fists, trying to keep the panic at bay. 

John moved closer so that his chair was sideways in front of Sherlock. He leaned over and wrapped his right hand around Sherlock's left fist. He was wearing gloves and the leather was slick from the rain, but his grip was firm. "Let's go home. Get out of this rain, have something to eat and drink. You'll feel better at home."

Home. Yes, he wanted to go home, as long as Moriarty hadn't made any more deliveries in their absence. He put his free hand on top of John's and nodded, then frowned. "We won't be able to get a cab here quickly at this time of day."

"Won't need to," John said. He pulled his hand away and pointed with his thumb over her shoulder, toward the road, where a black car sat idling at the kerb. Not a cab.

Sherlock groaned and let his head fall into his hands again, though less because of Mycroft's presence than because he hadn't noticed the car before John had. Of course Mycroft would show up, after the text Sherlock had sent him earlier. _Though I didn't mean we needed a personal taxi service when I said he should increase his security measures._

"I'll handle Mycroft," John said, reaching for Sherlock's hand again. "Come on."

Sherlock let John pull him to his feet and then followed him to the street. He lingered outside the car until John got in, trying to put off dealing with Mycroft for as long as possible. When he finally got in, he immediately slid over into the middle seat, shoving the wheelchair out of the way so he could lean against John. At least Mycroft's car was spacious enough that the backseat could comfortably hold both of them along with the folded-up chair. Too bad the car also held Mycroft.

For a few brief, glorious moments, Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock thought he might not try to talk to them at all, but that hope was dashed once they started moving. Mycroft directed his driver to return them to Baker Street, then twisted in his seat to look at them. "I assume from your dour expressions that you were too late to rescue Dr. Plante."

"No. She's fine. She's on holiday." John took off his gloves and shifted so he could put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock slouched against him. 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Well, regardless of the safety and well-being of your therapist, Sherlock, I think we can now all agree that Moriarty is indeed a threat that requires increased security."

 _She's not my therapist. I only saw her twice._ Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Mycroft was right; that was why he had texted him. But that didn't mean Sherlock wanted to listen to all the details. 

Mycroft started going on about putting cameras in their flat, and John interrupted to insist that they only cover the entrances to the building. Which obviously was what Mycroft had intended to do in the first place, but Sherlock let the two of them argue about it anyway. Cameras at the front door and covering the windows on all sides of the building might reduce the chances of Moriarty delivering any more macabre packages, or they might not; he did seem to love an audience.

Mycroft droned on about the cameras and Sherlock burrowed further into John's arms. John threaded the fingers of his right hand into the hair on the back of Sherlock's head and began to softly massage his neck, continuing until Mycroft tried to insist that they have one of his people stationed at Baker Street at all times. 

"Nope." John stopped rubbing Sherlock's neck so he could point at Mycroft. "Absolutely not."

Mycroft sighed, as if he were the one having to suffer through this conversation. "Sherlock has indicated that he fears for the safety of those around you, and the threat against Dr. Plante seems to bear that out. Don't you think Mrs. Hudson deserves to have someone dedicated to watching over her when the two of you are otherwise engaged?"

"Fine. Give Mrs. Hudson a bodyguard." John resumed his caressing of the back of Sherlock's neck. "Make sure it's someone who doesn't mind putting on a few pounds, because she's going to try to feed them up."

"And there will also be agents stationed at Barts Hospital and at your surgery, John."

"Mm, I don't think so. Well, you can put someone at Barts, if you want—Sherlock certainly spends enough time there, and when he gets caught up in a dead body he doesn't notice anything else that's going on around him—but I don't need a bodyguard at work."

"And what about your co-workers? Do they all have illegal handguns they can keep stashed in their offices like you do?"

John's hand paused in Sherlock's hair again, and Sherlock felt his shoulders tense, then sag. "Yeah, okay. You're right. Put a guard at my work. I'm not on the schedule tomorrow but I can go in and explain the situation."

"Feel free to do so," Mycroft said. "Though it's unlikely any of your co-workers would notice one of my people monitoring the office."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence, Mycroft. I do work with trained doctors and nurses, you know. We notice things."

"Mm-hmm," Mycroft murmured, and then twisted further in his seat to look at Sherlock. "You have been uncharacteristically silent, brother dear. Surely you have some inane objection to the plans we've been discussing?"

John slipped his hand from Sherlock's neck and tightened his grip around his shoulders. "It's been a long day, Mycroft. A long week. Leave him alone."

Sherlock saw Mycroft's lips twist in disapproval, so he closed his eyes again and let himself slip into a light Mind Palace trance, even though he didn't have anything he really wanted to focus on at the moment. He'd given up trying to figure out Moriarty's next move. The man had gone from killing his former employees to researching the side effects of Sherlock's medications—clearly, he was impossible to predict. There was nothing to be done except wait to see what he decided to do next, as frustrating as that was to admit.

When they got to Baker Street, Sherlock separated himself from John long enough to get out of the car. He would have waited for John to get out, regardless of the rain, but Mycroft rolled down his window as if to speak to Sherlock, so he hurried over to the building instead, under the pretext of having to unlock the door. Mycroft didn't follow them, thankfully, though his car didn't pull away from the kerb until they had closed and locked the door behind them. They went upstairs to find Stone waiting for them, trying to crowd onto the lift with them as soon as the door opened.

John pushed the dog out of the way so he could get into the flat, then glanced at his watch. "Er, I really need to take him out. He's been waiting a couple of hours. You want to come with us?" 

"No."

"Hold an umbrella for me?"

Sherlock stared at him. "You hate it when I try to do that for you."

"I know, it's just...." John bit at his lower lip. "We'll be back really quick, all right?"

"Whatever." Sherlock shrugged and dropped down onto the sofa to wait. Not even a full minute later he heard the lift coming back upstairs and raised his arm to check his watch. No, he hadn't lost track of time. Maybe John had forgotten something.

John came out of the lift alone, without Stone. Sherlock sat up and squinted at him until he explained. "Mrs. Hudson's taking him over to the park for me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to leave you alone right now."

"So you sent our 80-year-old landlady out into the rain?"

"She's not 80."

"Almost. What do you think I'm going to do if you leave me alone for ten minutes?"

"I think you're going to lie there on that sofa and let yourself get sucked down into a black mood and you can't afford to do that now with Moriarty still running loose."

"What's the difference? I can't catch him anyway. I haven't been able to figure out anything he has planned until it's too late. I'm just reacting to him." He flopped back against the cushions but didn't lie down, just to prove John wrong.

John crossed the room to pick up the _JAMA_ article Moriarty had sent. He folded it up again and stuffed it back into the envelope it had arrived in. 

_He's going to make me talk about it now. Unbearable._ Sherlock abandoned his previous tactic and stretched out on the sofa, putting his back to the room and to John and to everything he didn't want to talk about.

John didn't say anything, though, or at least not anything that Sherlock expected him to. Instead he started rambling on about food. "What time is it? We should get something in for dinner. What do you feel like?"

"Not hungry," Sherlock said to the sofa cushion.

"Yes, you are. What did you eat today?"

"Crisps. And coffee."

"Okay. We're getting Italian." 

Sherlock listened to him phone in an order, expecting the lecture to begin as soon as he was done, but instead John made another phone call, this time to one of the other players on his basketball team. "Hey, Alex. I'm not going to be at practice tonight. Not sure if I'll be at the next game, either, but I'll let you know before then."

When he'd ended the call, Sherlock sat up again and tried to make himself appear to be in more cheerful mood. "You should go to practice."

"I don't want to go to practice. I want to stay home with you."

"No, you just think you have to stay home with me, but you really don't."

"Believe it or not, Sherlock, I do enjoy your company."

Before Sherlock could again insist that John go to practice, Mrs. Hudson returned with Stone, gushing about a young couple she'd met in the park who'd had a Scottish Terrier like the one she'd had as a child. Sherlock patted the cushion so Stone would jump up and share the sofa with him, and let John handle the smiling and nodding along with Mrs. Hudson's tale. 

She didn't leave their flat until their dinner arrived, at which point Sherlock let himself be coaxed him off the sofa by the scent of garlic bread. Neither he nor John mentioned the _JAMA_ article or medication or dementia or Moriarty or Gemma or making an appointment to see her again, but Sherlock could feel all of it on the edges of their conversation, waiting to pounce.

After dinner, John went to have a shower. Sherlock was surprised he didn't insist they bathe together, but apparently he had eaten enough dinner to convince John that he was still a functional adult who could be left alone for brief stretches of time. It was a little early for bed, but he got ready anyway, welcoming the comfort of his old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms even more than usual. Stone curled up in the corner of the bedroom, with only his head resting on his dog bed, but he seemed happy enough that Sherlock didn't disturb him. He lay down on his own bed and found himself beginning to doze as he waited for John.

"You might want to get underneath the covers. And, I don't know, brush your teeth or something." John flicked his fingers at one of Sherlock's bare feet and then gave his ankle a squeeze.

Sherlock heaved himself up to sitting, rubbing at his eyes. "I already brushed them, before you showered."

"Okay." John turned away from the bed, arranging his phone and his watch and wallet on his nightstand. "So," he said, without looking at Sherlock. "Did you also take your meds?" 

"John." Sherlock sighed.

"I'm sorry. You know I have to ask."

"You don't. I took them."

"Okay." John fiddled with the watch he'd just set down. "Are you telling me the truth?" He turned his head to meet Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded. Maybe he should have been upset that John would question him, but he knew he had good reason. 

"Thank you."

"It's easier to take them than it is to fight with you about it," Sherlock said. Not to mention that he remembered all too well what it had felt like when he'd stopped taking the amitriptyline a year ago, and he knew couldn't afford that sort of uncontrollable anxiety right now. Not that he was feeling much better at the moment. 

"I'm not going to fight with you about it at all, Sherlock." John moved his chair up closer to the bed and then reached over to click off the light. "It's your decision. I just want you to wait until we take care of Moriarty before you make that decision." 

"If you'd asked me this morning, I would have told you I didn't need to be on it anymore. But the way I've felt today...." Sherlock shook his head, then squirmed to push down the covers so John could get into bed next to him. 

"Today's been a rough day." John lifted himself out of his chair and onto the bed. "This whole week has been...intense. Of course you've been feeling overwhelmed. That's normal."

Sherlock snorted, though it wasn't funny. "That's exactly what I said a year ago." He stayed on his back as he spoke, staring up through the dark at the ceiling. "When you got hurt, Mycroft and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson all ambushed me. They sat me down here in this flat and insisted I start the amitriptyline, even though everything I was feeling was completely normal, given the circumstances." 

John settled himself on his side and reached for Sherlock's hand. "Look, I'm not going to say it isn't complicated. I mean, I know personally and as a doctor, mental health is never really simple. We just have to do the best we can."

"I really don't want to be talking about this right now." Sherlock didn't pull his hand away, but he didn't respond to the light squeeze of John's fingers, either. "It's just making me feel worse."

"All right." John brought their hands up to plant a kiss on Sherlock's knuckles. "Want me to try to make you feel better?"

Sherlock shot a sideways glance at him. "Is this an offer of sex? Is that now your go-to cure?"

"It's not—"

"I hope it's not one you try with your patients." He tried to grin, to lighten the mood, but could tell it didn't work.

"I just thought you might want something that feels good after today."

Sherlock considered. He was wide awake now, after dozing for those few minutes while John was in the shower. And it was a little earlier than the time he usually went to bed, so even though he'd taken his medication, he was unlikely to fall asleep quickly. John's offer was tempting in that light, but he also suspected that John was trying to use sex to make up for the fact that he had hid what he'd known about the _JAMA_ study from him for the past year. When he coupled that with the fact that John was likely to refuse to let Sherlock reciprocate whatever act he performed, the answer was obvious. "No. I'm not really in the mood for anything like that tonight."

"All right." John let go of his hand and poked at his upper arm with one finger. "Can I get a kiss goodnight at least?"

"I suppose." Sherlock rolled to meet him, and they kissed for long enough that he started to reconsider John's offer, but before he could say anything, John pulled away, keeping his hands where they were on Sherlock's shoulders.

"You're very tense." 

"I wonder why."

John didn't reply. He skimmed his fingers along the bare skin above the collar of Sherlock's t-shirt. "Do your shoulders hurt?"

"What? I don't know...not really." He could feel that the muscles were tight, now that he thought about it, but it hadn't been consciously bothering him.

"Hm." John drew his hands back. "Lie on your back for me."

"Why?" Sherlock swallowed as a vivid memory of John pushing him onto his back and climbing astride him surfaced. Not that John wouldn't still be able to climb on top of him, if he wanted to, but the days of him casually swinging a leg over Sherlock's waist and holding him in place with his thighs were done, and Sherlock had no business fantasising about it. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his back as directed. "Why am I lying on my back?"

"Just take a few seconds to think about how you're feeling, see if there are any other parts of your body that are tense or sore or anything."

"Why?"

John sighed. "Because. You'll feel better if you're more in tune with your body."

"I'm already in tune with my body." 

"Okay, good. It can also help you relax and go to sleep."

He lifted his head from the pillow to peer at John, though it was too dark to get a good look at his expression. "You don't need to teach me how to go to sleep. Believe it or not, I've been doing it for years. Even before I met you I occasionally went to bed." 

John rubbed at his own eyes. "That's how I made it through rehab, you know. Especially the first week or two. I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted and in pain but I missed you so much and everything was just so awful. I had to come up with ways to make myself relax enough to sleep."

Sherlock stared through the dark at him for another moment, then put his head back down on the pillow as he realised why John was telling him this now. "So you think I should go off my meds."

"I don't know, Sherlock. I can't know how you feel now, or what you'll feel like if you stop. But I think you have been doing well, for most of the past year, really. Maybe if you stop taking them the depression will come back. Maybe it won't. I just think it's a good idea for you to have some coping skills prepared if you do stop."

"Coping skills."

"I mean I'm not saying relaxing your shoulders is a replacement for being properly medicated, but I know when you stopped taking it last year, you had problems sleeping—"

"I stayed awake so I could watch you sleep," Sherlock said. 

"Yeah, okay. You don't need to do that now. You never needed to do that."

"You—" Sherlock paused. It wasn't really John's fault he'd stopped the meds so suddenly last year, nor was it his fault he'd needed to take them in the first place, though he'd never admitted it to anyone else before. He cleared his throat. "John. There is a not-insignificant possibility that I have needed to be on antidepressants since long before I met you."

"I know." John folded Sherlock's hand into both of his and brought it briefly up to his lips. "That's why I spent years trying to get you to take something."

"So it might not be the best thing if I stop taking it. But I have to stop, if that study is true."

"Okay. Well. The study is really not something to worry about now. But if you do stop taking the amitriptyline and it gets bad again, we could try some of the other meds you rejected before, see if maybe a better diet might mitigate some of the side effects you had with them. And there are other ways to help, too."

"I really don't want to have to go talk to Gemma on a regular basis. I mean, I'm glad she's not dead, but that's about as far as it goes."

John chuckled. "Okay. I can see that talking to a therapist might not be the best long-term option for you. But we'll work it out, I promise. We don't have to figure it all out tonight."

"I haven't been able to figure anything out, lately, it seems like."

"Yes, you have. Come here." John tugged at his arm until Sherlock obliged and rolled toward him. John wrapped his arms around him, as warm and solid as his voice in the dark. "You saved that little girl who was poisoned yesterday."

"No, you saved her."

"All I did was hold her until the ambulance arrived. You're the one who got us there in time to save her."

"Everyone else has died before I got to them. Except Gemma, and she was just lucky she was out of the country."

"I find the fact that you can't predict the random whims of a madman to be actually rather encouraging, Sherlock." John kissed him just below his right ear. "He'll slip up eventually, and you'll catch him then."

"Maybe." _Or maybe I've already damaged my brain, and my crime-solving days are over._ He exhaled in an attempt to relax into John's embrace and tried not to think about which of those possibilities might be the truth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a total chapter count but that number may change slightly as I finish this story. I think I know all the major events that happen between now and the end, but sometimes a scene takes longer than I expected or I end up combining two chapters into one. 
> 
> I know there were some people who were unhappy after the last chapter. If you think stories should only portray Sherlock and John always doing the right thing and putting the other person first and never making mistakes, then this probably isn't the fic for you. Things will get worse before they get better in that respect, and I think that is true to both the show itself and to the previous stories in this universe. If you think that I'm only writing this for kudos, then I don't know what to tell you. The characters from this universe have been in my head since 2014, and I'm writing this because I love spending time with them, and I want to let others do the same.

It did take Sherlock some time to fall asleep, but once he did, he slept soundly. He was vaguely aware of John getting up around his usual time, but Sherlock pulled his pillow up over his face to block out the morning light and didn't wake again until someone jabbed him in the shoulder, hard.

He opened his eyes to the sight of his pillow. "Yes, okay," he muttered. "I'm awake. What?" He shoved the pillow to the side and discovered that it was not John next to the bed, but Mycroft, standing over him with an expression of concern that was a far cry from the composed and condescending front he normally displayed. Sherlock jolted fully awake. He sat up and glanced at John's nightstand, confirming that his watch and wallet were not there. "What's wrong? What's happened? Where's John?"

In the corner of the room, Stone rose from his dog bed with a clatter of his tags and wandered sleepily over to sniffle at Mycroft's trouser leg. Mycroft pushed him away with the toe of his shoe.

"Don't kick my dog. Where is John?"

"I have no idea where John is," Mycroft replied, and Sherlock could hear the faintest hint of a tremble in his voice. "That's not my concern. Why haven't you answered your phone?"

"Because I'm asleep." He stretched to grab the phone in question, which was charging on his own nightstand. He'd muted the sound overnight, but when he picked it up now it displayed two new messages and two missed calls. Nothing from John— _where is he?_ He jabbed at the button to call him.

John picked up after the first ring.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at work."

"You're not working today. It's Thursday." _It is Thursday, isn't it?_ God, he really was losing his memory.

"I told you yesterday that I was going in to tell them about Mycroft's bodyguards. I tried to wake you up when I was leaving, but it didn't work, but then I figured I'd be back before you got up anyway. What's going on?"

"You could have just called to tell them about it. Or texted them."

"I could have, but I didn't want to. Is everything—"

Mycroft grabbed the phone from Sherlock's hand. "He'll call you later," he said, then hung up on John.

"No, what are you doing? John!" Sherlock lunged toward Mycroft and the phone, nearly falling out of bed when he got tangled in the sheets.

"He's fine," Mycroft said. "Listen to me. John is not the one under attack right now." He held Sherlock's phone out to him. "Check your text messages. You've received a video link from an unknown number, as did I, early this morning."

Sherlock scowled, then took the offered phone as his mind clicked into full operation now that he knew John was not in any danger. _Moriarty._ Of course it had to be Moriarty. Who else would be sending them mysterious messages? Though including Mycroft was a new twist. He pulled his legs up so he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, then opened the message and hit play.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting—something gruesome, probably, but not this. His screen filled with a shot of Mycroft, dressed entirely in black spandex, breathing heavily as he ran on a treadmill. No, not breathing heavily—singing. Sherlock tapped the volume button with his thumb and music began to play. Mycroft was singing along to it energetically, his voice at least an octave higher than normal. Some sort of vaguely familiar pop song, the type Sherlock had been exposed to in the '80s but had since tried to delete. Something about a chameleon.... Mycroft certainly seemed to know all the words.

"Turn the sound off this instant!" Mycroft dove for the phone, knocking it from Sherlock's hand. They wrestled over it for a moment until Sherlock finally got possession of it and hit the pause button.

He swallowed back laughter at the spectacle of Mycroft singing as he realised what he'd just seen. "Moriarty filmed you?"

"In my house. He got into my house and planted a camera, Sherlock."

"You don't normally have a camera in that room that he could have hacked into?"

Mycroft shook his head, then dropped down to sit on the bed next to him. "You are never to tell another living being about the content of that video."

"Well, I have to tell John. And I'd show it to Mrs. Hudson, but she prefers heavy metal...." He grinned in spite of himself and used the edge of his t-shirt to wipe smudges off his phone screen, just in time to see another message pop up below the video link. A whole series of messages, actually, landing one after another in his text app, much too quickly for Moriarty to be typing them out live.

>   
>  _Hi Sherlock! Is Mycroft with you? I saw him take a car to your place—he gets up so early! Not like you, you love a good lie-in, don't you? Another thing you and I have in common!_
> 
> _But your brother has some good habits! Did you see him working out this morning? No sense of rhythm and he doesn't have much of a vocal range, but he kept up a good pace for 30 minutes today!_
> 
> _Maybe you should follow his example, hmm, Sherlock? Start up a new exercise regime? You could go jogging in the park. It might be lonely for you, though. I don't think that mutt of yours looks up to running very far, and John can't really run these days, can he? Too bad. Can you fit a treadmill in your flat? What music would you sing along to?_
> 
> _I really do think you should start exercising, Sherlock. Not that that body of yours doesn't still look fine, but you are 40 now. Plus, it might help you. You know, with...the depression. If you start getting some regular workouts in, you might be able to quit that nasty medication you've been taking. Get your mind and body healthy the natural way._
> 
> _I'm not really sure why you're depressed, though—is married life not all it's cracked up to be?? Bet you'd wouldn't be depressed if you were married to me. I'd keep you entertained all the time!_

Sherlock sat, staring at the screen, but no more messages came. The possibility of replying flitted through his mind, but even if he'd known what to say, he didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction. It was bad enough that he would have already seen that all his messages had been read.

He shut off the phone and tossed it across the bed. For a brief, awkward moment, he thought Mycroft was going to touch him in an attempt at comfort, but he didn't; instead he slipped off the bed to stand next to it. Sherlock exhaled and returned his thoughts to the video. "Have you reviewed the footage from your other cameras to see how he might have got into your house? Or do you think he had someone else plant it there?"

"Between four and seven p.m. yesterday, my household surveillance footage shows nothing but a loop that had been recorded earlier in the day. I was out of the house at the time, first at work and then chauffeuring you and John about town. Someone must have entered the building and planted the rogue camera during that time frame." Mycroft straightened the sleeves of his jacket but Sherlock saw the shiver that the motion was meant to hide.

He leaned against the headboard, shoving his feet back underneath the tangled blankets. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"I've already fired my household staff. I trust my driver, and he was with me yesterday when the cameras were tampered with. The four guards that I chose to rotate between here, Barts and John's office can all be vouched for—they were undergoing a final background check at the Home Office yesterday. I have Anthea working right now to find me a new housekeeper, cook and gardener, but I don't plan to hire anyone until Moriarty is caught." Mycroft turned away from Sherlock and began to pace back and forth between the bed and the door.

"Well, then we better find him soon, because we certainly can't have you going hungry."

Mycroft turned suddenly back to him, but didn't respond to his taunt. "I need a laptop."`

Sherlock decided to be accommodating. "There are four in the sitting room on the desk. Don't use the Toshiba or the one with the RAMC sticker on it."

Mycroft disappeared down the hall and Sherlock lay back in bed for a moment, thinking about how disappointing it was that he couldn't even let himself be amused by the video of Mycroft singing, given the circumstances under which it had been filmed. 

After a few minutes, it became apparent that there was no way he was going to go back to sleep, so he went to have a shower. When he was done and dressed, he emerged from the bedroom to find his kitchen rather full of people. Mrs. Hudson was stood on a chair, digging through one of the cabinets while a large, bald man in a suit stood by her, his hands hovering as if ready to catch her should she fall. Mycroft's choice for security: he did seem rather fit for the task. Anthea was there, as well, leaning against the worktop with her phone in her hand; she didn't look up as Sherlock entered the room. Mycroft sat at the table, hunched over Sherlock's second-best laptop, ignoring everyone else in the room. He'd moved John's tomato plant to the worktop. Sherlock put it back on the table, pushing Mycroft's briefcase out of the way.

"First a dog, now you have a plant. What's next, adopting a child?" Mycroft looked up, his normal level of obnoxiousness apparently restored.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at him. "I said you could use a laptop. I didn't say—"

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through Sherlock's complaint. "I can't find any of the good tea, did you move it and not let me know?"

"A year ago, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock pulled the canister out from its spot next to the hob.

"Oh, thank you." She stepped down off the chair with the aid of her bodyguard's arm. "I can make tea for everyone but if anyone wants a decent breakfast, I'll have to pop downstairs. There's nothing appropriate up here, as usual."

Sherlock sighed, then tried to make the best of the situation. "That's an excellent idea. Why don't you all pop downstairs for breakfast?"

Neither Mycroft nor Anthea replied, as expected, but the bodyguard perked up. "I'd love some breakfast, ma'am."

"Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together. "Oh, I know! We can stop down for pastries at Speedy's! Mr. Chatterjee would love to meet you." She tittered and beckoned to the guard, who followed her out of the kitchen.

Sherlock watched until the lift doors closed behind them, then turned to Mycroft and Anthea. "Okay, who else needs to leave my flat now?" 

"No one," Mycroft replied. "This is my headquarters until my office and house are done being swept for recording devices."

Sherlock scowled and proceeded to make himself coffee without offering any to Mycroft or Anthea, given that they both had cups already and hadn't made any for him. He ate his breakfast standing at the table where he usually did his chemistry, wondering what he could do to get them to leave. Unfortunately, Mycroft was too accustomed to Sherlock's usual behaviour to be frightened away easily. Maybe once John got home, they could lock themselves in the bedroom and make enough noise to chase them away. Sherlock picked up his phone and texted John. _—When are you coming home?_

A reply came only a few seconds later. _—On my way._

He frowned at his phone. That could mean anything—John might be in a cab en route, or still at the clinic, intending to leave but chatting with Sarah or another of his co-workers. He started to type a follow-up demanding that John be more specific, then decided that it didn't matter because he couldn't spend another minute alone here with Mycroft and Anthea. He turned to face them. "It's been lovely chatting with the two of you, but I need to take Stone over to the park."

Mycroft spoke without looking up from Sherlock's laptop. "John took him out already this morning. I watched him go and come back on the cameras I had installed last night."

 _Of course you did. Spying on us._ "And have you been monitoring Stone's water consumption since then? Anyway, he needs to stretch his legs or he gets bored and tries to chew on the furniture."

"Are you sure you're not describing yourself?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then whistled to call Stone and the dog came immediately to his side. He grabbed his lead from its hook in the sitting room and coaxed him into the hall and down the stairs. Stone was used to taking the lift, since John normally was the one to walk him, but once he realised that Sherlock wanted to take him out, he ran to follow him.

Outside, Sherlock expected to find Mrs. Hudson and her new bodyguard sitting at one of the café tables enjoying this morning's break in the rain, but they weren't. He glanced in through the window of Speedy's and could see them both crowded behind the counter, Mrs. Hudson waving her hands dramatically at Mr. Chatterjee while the guard stood discreetly at her side. Sherlock silently wished the man luck and let Stone pull him toward the park.

There were too many people around, of course, given the nice weather, but Sherlock was well-practiced at keeping everyone else at a distance. He and Stone followed John's usual loop through the park, though Sherlock knew his own disinclination to stop and chat with other dog-walkers meant they covered the distance more quickly than John would have. He glanced at his watch—they hadn't been out for very long. Not long enough for Mycroft to leave, though possibly long enough for John to have arrived home. He took his phone from his pocket to check for new texts just as Stone began to pull on the lead toward an open, grassy area where John often let him linger. The grass was mostly mud right now, which Sherlock wasn't eager to trudge through, but he had no reason not to let Stone explore for a while. They were far enough away from the lake and any of the gardens that he didn't need to be on the lead anyway.

He started to drop the lead, then bent down to unclip it so it didn't get dragged through the mud. "Stay close," he said, aware that the dog had no comprehension of the English language but trusting that he wouldn't go far on his own. He wasn't exactly the most active of animals. He stuffed the lead into his coat pocket and watched Stone lap a few mouthfuls of water from a mud puddle, then begin to nose around the base of one of the trees that ringed the edge of the grass.

He turned his attention back to his phone. No updates from John. _Maybe he's home already._ Sherlock began to type out a new message to him when he heard a dog bark. He looked up—not Stone, who had wandered another twenty metres to sniff at the next tree, but another dog. A small beagle on a short lead, yapping at his owner. They weren't close enough to try to strike up a conversation, thank God.

Stone began to trot further away, and Sherlock called his name, unwilling to let him go too far on his own. Stone didn't respond at all. Maybe they should try to train him a bit more than they had. He usually came when called, but only because nothing more interesting was holding his attention. He clearly found sniffing trees more compelling than Sherlock right now. If he went much further, he'd reach a spot where the trees were too dense for Sherlock to keep him easily in his line of sight.

"Stone!" Sherlock called again, and glanced around, looking for the least muddy path through the grass. By now Stone was a good 50 metres away from him. He tucked his phone into his pocket and started to pick his way through the mud, periodically dangling the lead in front of himself in the hope that Stone would be lured back by the familiar sound. But no, apparently the dog preferred his freedom.

Sherlock reached a thicker batch of mud and stopped. Normally he didn't mind if he got dirty, but he liked the shoes he was wearing and he didn't fancy walking back into the flat to face Mycroft and Anthea while covered in mud. "Stone, come on! Come here, boy!"

Stone still didn't respond, but a moment later he raised his head, looking away from Sherlock, to the east. Sherlock turned his head as well, in time to see two large grey and white dogs barrelling across the open field toward Stone. Huskies, running much faster than Stone ever could, not that he was trying to run away from them anyway. "Stone!" Sherlock shouted, and began to run through the mud toward him. The dogs were loose, with no owners in sight, and seemed entirely focused on reaching Stone.

 _Moriarty._ No, that was ridiculous. Moriarty hadn't sent a pair of dogs to attack Stone. _And yet...._

His feet slipped in the mud and he fell, catching himself on his hands—better than sprawling full-body, but he would never reach Stone first now. He shouted at the two racing dogs to stop, putting as much command into his voice as he could, but the tone that tended to surprise people into listening had no effect on animals. 

He got to his feet and began to run again, heedless of the slick mud, but it was too late. "Stone!" he yelled one last time as the other dogs reached him. Stone didn't flee, but ran to meet them. Sherlock heard one of the dogs give a short, deep bark, and then the three of them began to... _lick and sniff each other?_ Sherlock gasped for breath as he slowed, only steps away from them, but there was no need to intervene. He walked the remaining distance to the three dogs and bent down to try to pull Stone apart from the others. One of the huskies stopped bothering Stone long enough to try to mount Sherlock's leg in greeting. Sherlock pushed him away, but before he could pull Stone from the tangle of dogs, he heard voices shouting, and two children came running across the muddy field.

"There they are! Link! Zelda! Bad dogs!"

"They're not bad, Ethan!" One of the children, a girl of perhaps eleven, reached the tree where Sherlock stood with the dogs. She turned to stand with her hands on her hips, glaring at the smaller boy who ran up behind her. "You shouldn't have tried to run with them. I told you that you couldn't keep up." She looked up at Sherlock for the first time—she appeared to be much less short of breath than he himself was. "Sorry, sir. I told him that he wasn't as fast as they were, but he wouldn't believe me. You know how little brothers are."

Sherlock gave her a forced smile. "Yes, well. I know they rarely listen to their elder siblings." He snapped the lead back onto Stone's collar.

The boy picked up the filthy leads of the two huskies, wiping the mud that got on his hands onto the legs of his trousers. The girl frowned, then took a step back and peered up at Sherlock. "You're that detective man that my mum likes so much."

 _Oh, God, not now._ "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."

"No, I haven't!" She bounced on the heels of her trainers. "Whenever you're on the telly she watches you and I know what you sound like because she always says how much she loves your voice." She extracted a phone from the pocket of her jeans and Sherlock spun around before she could snap a photo, pulling Stone along with him. Stone gave a little yelp of displeasure but then followed, trotting next to him as they squelched back toward the path.

They'd been out for nearly half an hour, so surely John would be home by now. And even if he wasn't, perhaps the sight of Sherlock and Stone walking into the flat covered in mud would be enough to chase Mycroft and Anthea from the premises.

They exited the park through the nearest gate and walked back to Baker Street along the pavement outside. Stone seemed unaffected by his encounter with the other dogs, but Sherlock was still on edge. And rather embarrassed that the idea of Moriarty releasing vicious dogs in a public park had even crossed his mind. His parents' neighbours had had huskies when he was a child, and they'd all been rambunctious but sweet, as well as virtually untrainable. They would be a terrible choice to use in a deliberate attack.

 _I can't keep jumping at shadows like this._ After a moment's hesitation, he detoured slightly, so he could walk past the corner shop down the street from their flat. He didn't really want to buy cigarettes, because John hated it when he smoked and generally would refuse to kiss him afterwards, but.... A quick smoke would calm his nerves, and that would make it easier to deal with Mycroft. And maybe John wasn't home yet. He stood on the pavement looking at the door to the shop while people bustled around him and Stone pulled toward home. _It won't hurt to buy a pack. I don't need to smoke them now._ It would be nice to have something close at hand to soothe his nerves, since the amitriptyline certainly hadn't been doing much to control his anxiety lately.

He wrapped Stone's lead twice around his hand to draw him closer and reached with his other hand for the shop door, but before he could pull it open, Stone gave a long, pitiful whine. A split-second later, a crashing boom echoed down the street. Sherlock winced at the volume, then turned toward it. The sound had come from the north. From the direction of their flat. It had sounded like... _an explosion, there's no mistaking that sound. Sounded just like the time...._

Sherlock let go of the shop door and began to run, dragging Stone with him. He knew that sound—he'd experienced it before, six years ago, when Moriarty set off a bomb in the building across the street. _But that sound didn't come from across the street this time, did it? No._ He cursed as he tried to manoeuvre with Stone around an elderly man who was staring in the direction of the smoke that was now billowing into the air. _Above our house._ Where Mycroft was, and Anthea, and Mrs. Hudson with her new friend the bodyguard. And John, maybe, if he'd got back already. Sherlock bent over and scooped Stone into his arms so he could move faster, then took off down the street, running toward the dark plume of smoke that was rising over Baker Street.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow it's been a month since the last chapter, even though it feels like much less time to me. Sorry! I have a pretty firm idea of everything that needs to happen in the next two chapters, so ideally they shouldn't take too long, but the next month is very busy for me in real life, so I don't know how much time I'll be able to devote to writing. I would still like to meet my goal of finishing this by November, but we'll see what happens. In the meantime, enjoy!

Carrying Stone in his arms, Sherlock managed to make his way through the clumps of idiots who were standing on the pavement staring up at the smoke pouring into the air. It was definitely originating from 221. From the back of the building. The front windows of their flat appeared undamaged, and he didn't see any flames, but as he got closer, he could feel the smoke scratching at his throat.

He reached their front door, squeezing against the fence that ringed the entrance to the basement next door so he could get past a pair of twentysomething girls who had just emerged from the darkened interior of Speedy's café. _Darkened._ The power must have cut out for the whole building. 

He spun in a circle, surveying the crowd that was gathering several metres away from the building. _There_ —one of the employees from Speedy's was stood in the street, staring up at the building. He set Stone down on the ground and pointed at her. "You there, in the apron!" He thrust Stone's lead toward her. "Hold him, I'll be right back." She took the lead without objection and Sherlock whirled back toward the door, but before he could open it, someone shouted his name. _Mrs. Hudson._ She was in the doorway to Speedy's, being helped outside by her bodyguard.

Sherlock paused for a moment. _John might be upstairs. The lift won't work with the power off._

Mrs. Hudson said his name again and he turned to her. She put out both hands to him and he let her give him a quick embrace, feeling how her thin shoulders were shaking beneath his hands, despite the fact that she appeared uninjured. 

"You're okay," he said, giving her a gentle squeeze before he let go and stepped back. _One person safe._ "What happened?"

"Oh, it was awful! The whole building shook, and then the power went out. Felt like an earthquake, not that I've ever felt an earthquake before, but I've seen the films. Oh, Sherlock! It came from your flat, I'm sure. Was it a bomb? Is your brother okay?"

 _Mycroft._ "I don't know. I'm more worried about John—if the power's out, he might be stuck up there." He turned away from her, taking one long stride to reach their front door.

"Oh, no! He's not up there. He was in Speedy's with us!" She turned, wobbling on her heels, and pointed at the café behind her. Her bodyguard steadied her with a hand on her back.

Sherlock squinted to see through the café's windows—yes, John was in there, near a table in the back of the small restaurant, facing away from the door. _Why isn't he leaving?_ He glanced quickly at the door to their flat, then stepped past Mrs. Hudson toward Speedy's again. Mycroft should be able to get himself out, and even if for some reason he couldn't, Sherlock needed to make sure John was all right first. 

He pushed open the door to the café. Nothing appeared to be damaged inside, and the air was clearer than outside, but he still couldn't risk letting John stay in the building. Even if nothing was burning yet, their flat might be smouldering and a fire could break out at any moment. "John!"

John turned his head at his name. Sherlock couldn't see his expression in the dim light, but he heard the relief he felt himself echoed in John's voice. "Sherlock. Oh, thank God. Mrs. Hudson said you were out with Stone but I was still afraid you might've come back without her realising."

"No, we were just on our way back. Come on, let's—" 

He was cut off by the hearty scream of a small child. John's head whipped back around, and Sherlock saw that he wasn't alone in the back of the restaurant. There was a woman with several children, including one girl who was currently lying prone on the floor.

"Come on, sweetie." John was using his most gentle doctor voice, which Sherlock rarely heard. "Mummy's got your brothers, get up now and let's all go outside, okay?" He bent to try to scoop the child off the floor, but she squirmed away from him and John couldn't move freely enough in the café's narrow aisle to catch her. 

The woman in front of John let go of the hand of another small child and shifted the infant she was holding on her hip. "Take Eli," she said, and tried to pass the baby off to John, but Eli squealed and clung to her side.

Sherlock quickly assessed the options. The mother clearly wasn't able to wrangle all three children on her own. He wasn't sure how she'd even got them all here in the first place. John was perfectly capable of carrying a child on his lap, but he wouldn't be able to hold an uncooperative one and turn his chair around at the same time. Grabbing the handles of his chair and dragging him backwards out of the café wasn't a good idea, unless Sherlock fancied a punch in the face. _Which leaves one obvious solution._ He strode across the room and swooped the child on the floor up into his arms, ignoring her screech of protest. He had no idea how old she was, but she weighed less than Stone did. She could kick harder than the dog, though. He adjusted his grip so he could immobilise her legs and nodded at her mother. "Come on. Outside. Everyone, right now."

John waved the mother and her sons past him so he could shove one of the tables against the wall to give himself enough room to turn. Mr. Chatterjee had added a ramp out front last year after John had been injured, but the café's accessibility still left much to be desired. Sherlock had seen people with larger power wheelchairs or wide prams that couldn't even fit into the building.

Once he was sure John was following him, Sherlock led everyone out of the building, into the smoky haze of the street outside. The girl in his arms immediately began to cough. He hurried past their own front door and the next one, stopping at the edge of the pavement, where the crowd of onlookers had grown. He set the girl down on the ground and she immediately raced around him to grab at her mother's legs. The mother started to say something to him— _probably "thank you"_ —but he turned away before she could finish, needing to reassure himself that John had followed him away from the building. He had. "John." His voice cracked, and he knew it wasn't because of the smoke.

John shook his head, lips pressed tight together, then reached out and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's coat. "Oh God, come here. I was afraid you were up there, and I didn't know how I was going to get you out if you'd been hurt. I could crawl up the stairs but I didn't know how I'd get you back down."

Sherlock let himself be pulled onto John's lap so they could wrap their arms around each other. He sagged against John's chest, whole body going limp with relief. "I thought I was going to have to rescue you. We were just down the road when I heard it, and I didn't know if you'd made it home yet." 

John's right arm tightened around him and his left arm snaked its way beneath his coat. "Do you know what happened?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "Moriarty, I assume. It sounded like a bomb." But when Moriarty had set off the bomb across the street years ago, the entire building had been destroyed. 

John nodded. "That's what I thought, too. I would've been up in the flat, but Mrs. Hudson caught me when I got back from the clinic. She wanted me to meet Leon. A minute later something hit the building—we could hear the glass breaking upstairs. All the people in Speedy's were panicking, so I tried to get everyone out calmly, hoping that by the time I did you would've made it downstairs with Stone, if you were up there."

"You should have got out yourself, first. What if the building had collapsed?"

John shrugged. "I wouldn't have wanted it to collapse on everyone else."

"John." Sherlock buried his face against the collar of his coat. "I don't really care if everyone else gets crushed as long as you survive." He nuzzled John's neck with his nose, then straightened up in alarm. "Oh! Mycroft!" 

"Hmm?"

"He was in our flat. With Anthea. It's a long story—did you see them come out?"

"No."

Sherlock took a deep breath. _Get up and go look for him._ He knew he had to, but... _what if he didn't make it?_ Surely, if Mycroft was able to get out of the flat, he'd be out by now. Sherlock met John's eyes, their faces only a few inches apart, and John gave one short, sharp nod and the lightest of pushes against Sherlock's chest. He stood, shaking his coat out and took one step back toward 221. In the distance, a fire engine wailed; it would be here soon, but not soon enough. If Mycroft and Anthea were injured and trapped, a minute or two could make all the difference.

"I don't think the building's on fire," John said. He rolled himself back a few feet and craned his neck to look up at the building. "Or if it is, it hasn't spread to the front rooms yet. Were they in the sitting room?"

"Kitchen," Sherlock replied. John was right, there were still no signs of fire, but there was an awful lot of smoke. He had to go and look—he would never forgive himself if he didn't, and he didn't even want to think about what Mummy and Daddy would do. 

He'd taken three steps when John said his name again. Sherlock turned, then followed John's gesture to look down the street, to where a long, black car was attempting to bulldoze its way through stalled traffic. _Mycroft's car._ But was Mycroft in it, or just his driver? The question was answered when the car abruptly pulled over to bump up against the kerb. The back door opened and Mycroft jumped out—actually jumped, moving as quickly as Sherlock had ever seen him. He ran several strides, only coming to a halt when he caught sight of Sherlock. 

Anthea emerged from the car behind him, much more restrained. She followed Mycroft's gaze to Sherlock and John and nodded, then turned to glance briefly at Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting in a chair on the pavement a few doors down from Speedy's. Her bodyguard—Leon, according to John—must have borrowed a seat from Speedy's for her. She had also acquired possession of Stone, who was currently sitting expectantly at her feet, looking up at Leon. As Sherlock watched, the bodyguard withdrew a treat of some sort from his suit pocket and gave it to him. Leon had obviously been well-prepped for his new job.

After a brief pause, Mycroft resumed walking. Sherlock met his eyes at a distance of a few metres and was gratified to see an attempt to hide the same relief he felt. They quickly looked away from each other. Mycroft stopped several feet away from him, flicking his gaze up to the smoking building. "I take it this wasn't caused by some chemistry mishap of yours?" 

"I never have chemistry mishaps." Sherlock turned away from him and walked back to John. He adjusted the fall of his coat and then flopped down into his lap again.

John exhaled heavily at the impact. "A little warning next time."

"You were warned years ago." Sherlock twisted in his lap and dropped his head onto his shoulder.

"I was." John pressed his lips into Sherlock's hair. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but whatever disapproving remark he was about to make was drowned out by sirens as the first fire engine turned onto Baker Street.

The police arrived moments later, two panda cars full of earnest young officers who closed the street and did their best to move everyone out of the way. Sherlock considered refusing to move—the building still didn't appear to be on fire, and the smoke coming from it had lessened—but John had other ideas. "Get up, come on. Unless you want photos in the papers of me carrying you down the street."

"I don't see any reporters or cameras at the moment."

"There are a dozen people with their phones out. You know one of them will film us."

"I don't care." Sherlock turned his head against John's chest. No, he didn't want to be photographed in John's lap, but there were worse things that could happen. He could have been photographed carrying John's lifeless body out of their burning flat. He shivered at the thought and snuggled closer, until he felt the gun concealed beneath John's coat pressing against his ribs. _Maybe if I never let him get more than an arm's length away from me, I can keep him safe._

"Okay, well, you do have to move at least a little bit." 

Sherlock let himself be manhandled until John could move his arms enough to push them both away from the building. Mycroft joined them at the edge of the police cordon, directing the officers to set up their barriers further down the street, so none of the onlookers could get too close to them. Leon fetched more chairs and a table from in front of Speedy's, then led Mrs. Hudson and Stone off in search of cleaner air to breathe while they waited for a report from the fire brigade.

Sherlock stayed in John's arms, watching over his shoulder as firefighters hurried in and out of their building, but Mycroft seemed to think it was more important that they figure out what had happened. 

"What do you think happened? Moriarty happened." Sherlock turned to glare at Mycroft, accidentally whacking John in the chest with his elbow. 

"Okay, get up now. It's getting uncomfortable and you're probably cutting off my circulation." John tapped him on the thigh to get him to move, and Sherlock reluctantly stood and took a seat at the table across from Mycroft and Anthea. 

"Why are your hands so dirty?" Mycroft leaned back, though Sherlock's hands were nowhere close to touching him.

"Slipped in the park chasing Stone." He rubbed them together to try to brush off the remnants of the mud, though they really weren't that dirty.

"Here." Anthea reached across the table to hand him a small foil packet containing a wet wipe. Lavender-scented. He tore open the package, wondering how often she—or Mycroft—got dirty enough to require her to carry wipes around. 

After he'd cleaned his hands as best he could, he turned to John. "I might've got your coat a little muddy...." He reached out to dab at John's sleeve with the wipe.

"If we could get down to business, please?" Mycroft interrupted. "Have either of you received any messages from Moriarty claiming responsibility yet?"

Sherlock tossed the wipe onto the table and he and John both checked their phones, but there was nothing. 

Mycroft frowned, then put his briefcase on the table and pulled a computer from it. 

"That's my laptop," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft blinked once at him. "You said I could borrow it. Anthea and I received word that our offices were clear of any recording devices, so we elected to go back to work there. Our computers are still being swept for bugs, so I felt it prudent to continue to use yours. You should be happy that I rescued it from your flat."

"What do you need it for now? Got a new workout video you need to watch?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him, ignoring John's look of confusion. "Would you prefer that I take your laptop and leave you here without checking the camera feed to see how, exactly, Moriarty managed to blow up your flat?"

Sherlock scowled but didn't complain any more as Mycroft logged into the cameras that he'd placed around the building. He turned the laptop so they could all see as he replayed the footage from a few minutes earlier, showing an close-up view of a small drone flying straight into their bedroom window. They could see the glass shattering and then, seconds later, black smoke began to pour out into the alley. 

"We'll replace your windows with bulletproof glass, of course," Mycroft said. 

"Should have done that in the renovations last year," Sherlock grumbled.

"You were opposed to making any substantial changes in the bedroom, if I recall correctly." 

"I wouldn't have objected to new windows. For the whole building. Would've helped with insulating it better, too."

"Yes, well, you were in charge of that, brother dear. Perhaps you should have thought less about what colour tile to put in the bathroom and more about all the potential enemies you've made over the years."

"Or you could just try not letting my enemies escape from prison."

"Hey, stop it, you two," John said. He gestured at the laptop. "Back it up a few seconds and pause it right before the drone hits the window." 

Mycroft did as requested, and John pulled the laptop closer, pointing at the screen. "It looks like it's carrying a smoke grenade, but not one I've ever seen before."

"Oh, yes, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. "Pardon me, I had forgotten about the time you spent as a grenadier during your years in the service."

"Shut up, Mycroft. What do you know about it, hm?"

"Well, I—" Mycroft began, but before he could blather on, Anthea slid her phone across the table, displaying a picture of the device that the drone had been carrying.

"It's not a traditional smoke grenade to be used as a flare or signal," she said. "This model is designed to produce a maximum amount of smoke without causing significant structural damage. I expect the fire brigade will clear the building soon. You'll have a lot of cleaning up to do, but not much else."

"So he wasn't trying to blow up our flat, just fill it with smoke." John wrinkled his nose.

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "And he must have known we weren't in the building. If he was able to pilot that drone precisely enough to hit our bedroom window, I'm sure he was able to see that everyone had left the flat." He paused, considering the ramifications. "He's not escalating his attacks, but he is getting closer. First it was his own employees, then Gemma, then Mycroft, now us."

"Mycroft?" John asked.

"Another video," Sherlock said. "I'll show it to you later." 

"But he killed his employees. And he might have killed Gemma, if she had been in her office. Why is he just toying with us?"

"Because his goal isn't to kill Sherlock," Mycroft said. "It's to win him."

John raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Yeah, but if he wants Sherlock for himself, that means he wants me out of the way, so why is he going through all this?" He waved a hand at the computer and then at the building behind them. "Why doesn't he go ahead and—" He pointed at his own temple and mimed a gun with his right hand. Sherlock ground his teeth together in an effort not to react to the motion.

Mycroft pulled the laptop back across the table. "He can't kill you, John. He knows that if he killed you, he would lose any chance of ever winning Sherlock's heart." 

"My heart is not a trophy to be won." Sherlock crossed his arms, slouching in his chair. "And why would he think he would endear himself to me by blowing up our bedroom?"

John glanced sideways at Sherlock, frowning. "He thinks that if he's clever enough, if he outsmarts you for long enough, eventually you'll fall in love with him because he's a genius just like you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Hardly. Not my type."

"Well." John shifted slightly in his chair. "I'm pretty sure that's his plan."

"It's certainly not going to succeed." Sherlock sat up straighter and then looked more closely at John. "You're not actually concerned that he's going to steal me away from you, are you?" 

John swallowed and quickly looked down at his hands, folded in his lap, before shaking his head.

Sherlock turned to face him directly. "John, don't be ridiculous. First of all, I'm married to you, and quite happily, I might add. And second of all, Moriarty is a convicted mass murderer. But even apart from those facts, I don't find him the least bit physically attractive."

"Why not?"

Sherlock stared at him. "What kind of question is that?"

"I mean, he's a good-looking man. Why don't you find him attractive?"

"I—" A number of replies streamed through his head, but there was only one that mattered. "I don't find most people attractive. Only you."

Sherlock expected an eye roll at the declaration, but John just gave a small shrug and seemed to pull his shoulders in closer, making himself look smaller than he was. Sherlock had to resist the urge to crawl into his lap again. Instead he leaned back in his chair, trying to appear casual. "I know you've never believed it, but it's true." He waved a hand dismissively. "And anyway, Moriarty is too skinny. And he's definitely going to go bald someday. Also, the criminal insanity is not a turn-on for me, as hard as that may be to believe."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "As fascinating as this insight into your relationship is, could we possibly return to the matter at hand?"

"This is the matter at hand," Sherlock said, without taking his eyes off of John.

"No, this a discussion of your personal life." Luckily, Mycroft was easy to ignore.

Sherlock and John stared at each other for a moment, then John spread his hands on the top of the café table and sighed. "I'm sorry. I know—I know you don't want to be with him, Sherlock. It's just...you know. Hard for me sometimes."

Mycroft inhaled loudly and made a show of adjusting the laptop screen in front of him. "I must insist that you stop this now and concentrate on the more urgent issues facing us. There will be time for you to talk about your feelings when Moriarty is behind bars and you're alone together once more. Please."

Sherlock continued to ignore him. He scooted the café chair close enough to John that their shoulders were touching, then threaded his left arm through John's right, settling his hand on top of John's on the table. The press of John's biceps against his triggered a list of what he liked about John's body, but that wasn't what was important at all. "Moriarty's boring. He's too one-dimensional. You're much more interesting than he'll ever be."

John turned his hand up to squeeze Sherlock's fingers; Sherlock glanced sideways and saw just the faintest hint of a smile. He grinned back at him.

"Stop it." John flicked at his arm with his other hand. "You're embarrassing Mycroft."

"It's not the first time today he's been embarrassed." Sherlock took his hand back so he could show John the video Moriarty had sent.

"Oh, for God's sake." Mycroft slammed the laptop shut and stood up. "I'm going to do something useful and enquire about the state of your flat while the two of you sit here mooning over each other." He stalked away from the table, Anthea silently rising to follow him without looking up from the phone in her hand.

Sherlock wanted to ask John if he really thought he could possibly be interested in Moriarty— _does John find him attractive?_ —but he feared bringing it up again. Dwelling on the topic might make John feel even more insecure, and for no good reason. He'd never given John any indication that he was attracted to anyone else because he wasn't, unlike John, who turned his head at a good-looking woman or man often enough that Sherlock had long ago learned not to worry about it. 

A convenient change of topic presented itself when Mrs. Hudson and Leon joined them at the table, bringing iced coffees for the humans and a bowl of water for Stone. Sherlock occupied himself with obliging Stone's need for belly rubs while John listened politely as Mrs. Hudson relayed seemingly every thought that had crossed her mind since she'd gone downstairs with Leon earlier today.

Eventually she petered out, and announced her need to use the loo. Leon rose, immediately attentive, and escorted her down to the corner shop, expertly moving aside the onlookers who were still gathered on the street staring, despite the fact that there was no longer any visible smoke, and the firefighters were beginning to vacate the scene.

Sherlock nodded toward Mrs. Hudson and Leon, then asked John, "How'd it go with your guard at work this morning?"

"Oh, yeah, that was no problem." John stretched his arm out and Stone switched his allegiance, leaving Sherlock so John could scratch him behind the ears. "Glad I'm not working today, though, because it was a bit of a zoo there this morning. Sharon's been out all week—the flu is running through her whole family. Then this morning Mary called in, said she's got a family emergency and is going to be out of town for the foreseeable future. You're lucky I'm not a nurse, Sherlock, or I would have had to stay and work today. As it is, I'm not really looking forward to going in tomorrow."

"You won't be going in to work tomorrow." Mycroft strolled up behind them, stopping just out of range of Stone's curious sniffing. 

"Sorry, what?" John twisted toward him and raised a hand to his eyes, squinting against the sun where it peeked from behind the clouds. "Yes, I will. You've got a bodyguard stationed there, what more do you want?"

"I just spoke with the firefighters. As Anthea predicted, the building has no signs of structural damage, but there is extensive smoke damage in your flat. It will need to be professionally cleaned. If you had listened to me last year when you were renovating, Sherlock, and had a sprinkler system installed, the damage would've been less severe."

John laughed. "Sprinklers would've gone off a dozen times in the last year, every time Sherlock set something on fire."

"My fires are almost always controlled immediately," Sherlock objected. "But even if we had put in sprinklers, we'd just be dealing with water damage now, instead."

"Regardless, your flat will not be habitable for a few days, at least," Mycroft said. "The two of you will need to be temporarily relocated."

John turned his back to Mycroft again and shrugged. "So we'll stay at a hotel. Doesn't mean I can't go to work tomorrow."

"No hotels. It's too hard to control security in a public location."

Sherlock snorted. "Given that Moriarty was able to slip a camera into your own house, I'm not sure that staying at one of the safe houses you've got scattered about the city will be any more secure."

"You won't be staying in any of the safe houses I have in the city."

Sherlock looked up in alarm at his tone. "Oh, no. Anywhere else, Mycroft."

"I'm sorry, but it has sufficient space and the location is easy to monitor."

"What?" John looked at Sherlock, brow creased. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his shoulders sag. "Mummy and Daddy's house."

"The very same. Mummy is thrilled. Mrs. Hudson will be joining you."

 _Even worse._ "She can stay with her sister, if her flat needs to be cleaned, too."

"No. I can't afford to spread my protective resources any thinner than they are right now. You need to all be in one place. The house is big enough for all of you."

"I am absolutely certain that is not true. No house is that big." Sherlock groaned and laid his head on the table atop his arms. 

"Oh, come on." John reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "It won't be that bad. Your parents are nice enough." 

Sherlock scoffed, and heard an answering chuckle from Mycroft, as well. "Nice doesn't mean they're pleasant to be around."

"It'll be fine. And the house is isolated enough that it's easy to keep secure, right, Mycroft?"

"Yes. As long as we keep the two of you contained. And no one incites a war between Sherlock and Mummy."

Sherlock pushed himself to sit upright again. "Fine. We can use Stone as a buffer, at least. She's always wanted a grandson."

"I've called for a separate car to take you there. Mummy is expecting you in time for tea."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. _Not much time._ He pushed his chair back from the table and looked around. There were a growing number of news cameras at the edge of the police perimeter, and the last of the firefighters were loading their gear back into their engine. He passed the end of Stone's lead over to John and stood. "I'm going in. We'll need a few things if we're going to be staying elsewhere for a while."

"You can buy whatever you don't have," Mycroft said.

"I'm going in," Sherlock repeated and walked purposefully toward the building, knowing that the firemen wouldn't try to stop him as long as he acted as if he had the right to be there.

"Be careful," John shouted after him. "Don't inhale."

"Excellent medical advice," Sherlock heard Mycroft mutter behind him. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and opened the door to the building. The power hadn't been restored yet, so it was dim as he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The scent of smoke was strong even here in the entryway and grew as he climbed the stairs, walking up into a haze that made it even more difficult to see. He put a hand over his nose and mouth to minimise the amount he inhaled, though he had no doubt that over the years his smoking habit had caused him more damage than would a few minutes of breathing the air in the flat.

The firefighters had opened all of the windows in the flat, but Mycroft was correct in his statement that there'd been no serious damage, at least not in the sitting room. Two small lamps had fallen over, the skull had slid a few inches out of place on the mantel, and numerous papers that had been in front of the open windows were now scattered throughout the room. He swept up as many of them as he could and piled a couple of books on top of them on the desk, then picked up John's laptop and the one he himself preferred to use. They'd be essential to have at Mummy's and Daddy's if he and John hoped to not die of boredom.

The kitchen was worse than the sitting room. He'd left some empty test tubes lying on his chemistry bench and they'd all rolled onto the floor, leaving shards of glass that crunched beneath his feet. He tried to step around the worst of the mess, and saw that the tomato plant was also upended on the floor. Mycroft must have moved it from the table to the worktop again, and the force of the smoke grenade exploding had knocked it over. He set the laptops on the table and bent to pick up the pot, trying to scoop the loose dirt back into it, but the main stalk of the plant had broken and seemed beyond repair. He set the pot in the sink and ran a bit of cool water into it, just in case it was still capable of recovering. Perhaps the fresh air coming in through the window would help.

The bedroom had borne the brunt of the damage; a strong breeze blew through the broken window, but it wasn't enough to disperse all the smoke that still hung grey in the air. Even without the room's lights on, it was clear at a glance where the drone had landed before the grenade had gone off: there was now a ragged hole in the centre of the wool blanket atop their bed, and the sheets beneath it were stained black with soot. _Moriarty's attacked our marriage bed. It's rather metaphorical, if you think about it._ He decided not to think about it.

He opened his wardrobe to get a bag for the laptops. Other than a couple of dirty shirts that had been lying on the chair in the corner, all of their clothes appeared to be salvageable, although they would need a thorough cleaning and deodorising. He and John would have to stop and pick up something to wear for the next few days. Despite the fact that he was roughly the same size as his father, and John shared his sartorial taste, he didn't think either one of them wanted to borrow Daddy's clothes. 

Beyond clothes, he thought there was little of their own that they would need at his parents' house. Some toiletries from the loo, their phone chargers, Stone's favourite chew toy—the rubber would come clean easily with a bit of soap and water. He loaded everything into two small bags, recalling the last time he'd done this alone, when he'd packed several bags to bring to John in rehab. No need for sentimental photos this time, at least.

He was about to leave when he remembered one more thing he needed. Somewhat reluctantly, he opened the drawer to his nightstand and pulled out his meds. John would say this was not the time to start weaning himself from them, and he knew it was true. He sighed and walked around the ruined bed to John's nightstand, rummaged in the drawer for the bottle of Viagra, then, after a moment's consideration, put it back. There weren't many pills left; John would need a refill soon. _Not that we've been having much sex lately anyway._ And there wasn't much chance that would change in the next few days, especially not if they were staying in his parents' house. He sighed again and swung the two travel bags onto his shoulder, then left the flat, hoping their stay away from home didn't last very long.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets explicit so if you're not into that, you might want to skip it I guess. If you are into it, welcome!

They did arrive at Mummy and Daddy's in time for tea. Sherlock only gloated a little over the fact that if he'd done as John asked and picked up their dry cleaning earlier in the week, they would have had to waste more time shopping today. As it was, they only needed to buy some new socks and pants, and to let Mrs. Hudson pick out a bottle of wine to bring as a hostess gift. 

She began to apologise the moment they set foot in the house, explaining how she hated to impose but that Mycroft had insisted she leave Baker Street, even though her flat had suffered very little smoke damage. She'd spent nearly the entire car ride here expressing the same sentiment. Sherlock had feigned sleep and retreated into his Mind Palace, regretting the fact that he’d told the bodyguard he didn’t need to accompany them on their stay in the country. Leon could have kept Mrs. Hudson entertained, at least.

Now, Sherlock watched as Mummy put on a false smile to welcome them. _Ah, she's genuinely pleased to see me and John, but isn't as keen on having to host Mrs. Hudson, as well._ He bit back a grin of his own, and dropped the bag with their laptops onto John's lap. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, don't you worry about that. We're happy to have you here with us. We wouldn't want it any other way." He wrapped her into a hug and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, watching from the corner of his eye as Mummy reacted in shocked envy. He let go of Mrs. Hudson and picked up her suitcase for her, smiling at Mummy. "Now, where shall I put Mrs. Hudson's bags?"

A brief wrinkle of her nose and Mummy had herself back under control, her polite façade restored. "Mrs. Hudson can choose either of the first two bedrooms upstairs. Those were the boys' rooms when they were little. Sherlock, you and John will be down here in our bedroom, of course, and Daddy and I will take the guest room upstairs."

Sherlock's stomach dropped in horror at the thought of sleeping with John in his parents' bed, and John obviously had the same thought, because his eyes widened before he smiled at Mummy and shook his head. "No, we couldn't possibly take your own bedroom away from you."

Mummy tutted at him. "Nonsense, of course you can. I've already changed the linens."

"No, really—" John glanced up at Sherlock and they had a rapid, unspoken conversation, then John's tongue darted out from between his lips. He nodded toward the staircase near the kitchen, which was less steep than the one down the hall. "I could probably—"

"The sofa bed!" Sherlock exclaimed. "In the rear living room. You still have it, don't you?" It had been there for years, but his parents rarely used that room at all, so they would have had little reason to update it.

"Oh, that old thing?" Mummy said. "You don't want to sleep on that."

"Yes, we do. Right, John?"

John nodded vigorously in agreement. "Yes, that's perfect. We'll be right by the back door in case Stone needs to go outside late at night." The only time Stone ever went outside late at night was when Sherlock and John came home late themselves, but Mummy didn't need to know that.

Mummy frowned, then bent slightly, holding out a hand toward Stone, who obliged her with a snuffling lick. "Oh, very well," she said. "I'll get out some fresh pillows for you. But we'll sleep upstairs anyway, in case you come to your senses after a few hours on that old pull-out mattress."

Sherlock escorted Mrs. Hudson upstairs and came back down with an armful of clean sheets and pillows for the sofa bed. John had already brought their bags to the room at the back of the house, and Stone had found the large window and was sitting with his nose pressed to the glass, watching squirrels, rabbits and birds frolic in the garden.

Sherlock dropped the sheets and pillows onto an armchair and then sat on the sofa, bouncing to test the springs. "This mattress is probably terrible. I'm sorry about that, but I just couldn't—"

"No, don't worry about it. I don't want to sleep in your parents' bedroom, either."

"I should've brought your crutches and—"

"I would've made you turn around and put them right back."

"I know. That's why I didn't. But I didn't even think about the bedrooms being upstairs. I—"

"Don't."

"I should've thought of it."

"Nope. You had plenty of other things on your mind. Budge over. I want to stretch out after that car ride."

Sherlock slid to the end of the sofa and pulled a footstool close so John could put his feet up on it. "How could I forget that the bedrooms are upstairs? I lived here for twenty years."

"You didn't forget. You were just thinking about other things." John swung himself out of his chair and settled on the sofa next to him. "Come on now, stop it. You are not being any more forgetful than normal, all right? You're not losing your memory." 

"I hope not." He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a hot anxiety rise through his chest. Was John right—was it a normal oversight in light of hectic events? _Would I have made the same mistake a year ago?_

"You remembered about the sofa bed, right? You're not forgetting things." John flicked him in the arm.

"What was that for?"

"To make you stop worrying. You know how you always say 'there's always something' that you overlook and get wrong? That's what this is." He leaned back on the sofa and draped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "And anyway, even if you had thought about the bedrooms being upstairs, I still would've refused to let you bring my braces and crutches and we'd still be sleeping here on this sofa."

"I guess so." He let himself sink into John's embrace and they sat together for a while, watching Stone be entertained by the wildlife outside. Though he wouldn't have admitted it to most people, Sherlock relished the chance to sit in silence like this, especially after the emotional tumult of this morning. Given the opportunity, he thought he might be tempted to take John and Stone and run off to live quietly in the country, where no one else could ever find them. 

"Did your mother actually go out and buy Stone a new dog bed this morning after she found out we were coming here?" John asked, when Stone finally left his post at the window so he could curl up and go to sleep on a plush cushion in the corner of the room.

"Apparently." Sherlock shrugged. "We should be grateful, because if she went out for dog supplies then maybe she got some food for us, too. Biscuits, I hope."

Mummy called them for tea soon after, and while the food was excellent, the rest of the afternoon and evening were as tedious as Sherlock expected. Even watching Mummy and Mrs. Hudson pretend to be civil to each other soon grew boring.

Mrs. Hudson retired to her room before it was even fully dark outside. He heard the creak of the old windowpane opening, and hoped she was able to air out the smoke from her herbal soothers completely enough that Mummy didn't catch a whiff and decide it meant she was a bad influence on him. Finally, Mummy and Daddy grew tired of "catching up," as they called it, and went upstairs for the night, as well. 

"Think I'm going to have a bath," John said. "Still feeling a bit smokey from this morning."

"All right." Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, until he replayed John's words in his head. "Wait—that bathtub." He stood up, dislodging Stone, who'd been sitting with his head on his lap on the sofa.

"Hmm?"

"The tub's deep and not particularly easy to get in and out of." _Let me help you._ That particular sentiment was rarely well-received, and today was no exception.

"Are you suggesting that I am less able to get in and out of a bathtub than your 75-year-old parents?"

He hesitated. "Mummy's not even 74 until August."

John didn't laugh. "Take Stone outside while I'm in the bath. And take your time, let him run around for a bit."

"I—fine." He got Stone's lead and left John to his own devices, though he continued to chafe at John's attitude as he stood outside and watched Stone sniff all the same things he'd sniffed a few hours ago when they'd arrived. He knew John was capable on his own, but he also knew that he tended not to ask for help even if he really needed it. All Sherlock wanted to do was make things easier for him when he could. But it wasn't worth having a full-blown argument over. _I should have suggested we avoid using Mummy and Daddy's bathroom at all. We could've cleaned ourselves with flannels at the kitchen sink._

He was still stewing about it when he came back inside, though when he walked to the end of the hall to let John know he was back— _I'm not checking up on him_ —every negative thought he'd been having vanished immediately.

John sat in front of the mirror, shirtless, wearing only a pair of sleeping shorts. He glanced over his shoulder when Sherlock opened the door, then picked up a tube of styling gel. "I hate having to use this before I go to bed, but it's the only way to keep my hair out of my eyes. I don't like smelling it all night, though." He wrinkled his nose and then spread a clump through his hair with his fingers before using a comb to arrange it off his forehead.

"You can use mine if you want."

"Yours isn't any better."

"Hm. I'm pretty sure my father has some hair clippers if you want me to run upstairs and get them for you."

John chuckled and Sherlock grinned in response, though he truly was more than willing to cut John's hair for him if he wanted. He stepped closer behind his chair and trailed a thumb up his neck into the back of his hair, which wasn't as long as the rest of it. John gave a final sweep of the comb and then tossed it into his wash bag. Sherlock let his hand drift down to his shoulder, his attention focussed on the reflection in the mirror in front of them. By now, he was used to John's new, more muscular physique, though the metal hoop in his left nipple still occasionally caught him by surprise. He let his gaze linger until John caught his eye in the mirror. Sherlock pinched his lips into a regretful smile and stepped back.

"Don't step away now."

"I have to, it's a little—"

"I know. I recognise that expression." John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's reflection.

"John, we're in my parents' house!"

"So?"

"So what if they come back downstairs?"

"You didn't seem to mind when Lestrade and Donovan walked in on us the other day."

"That's different. These are my parents."

John rolled his chair forward a little so he could turn and look up at him. "Remember when we went to the piercer's, and after I was done, I panicked because I thought your mum might see this?" He flicked at the ring in his nipple.

"Of course I remember. What's your point?"

"What did you say to me then?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. He'd told John not to worry, that even if she understood the purpose of the ring it wouldn't matter, since she was aware that the two of them were married and having sex. "Just because I said it doesn't mean I meant it."

John shrugged. "All right. We don't have to do anything tonight." He gave the ring another small tug, his mouth falling slightly open.

Sherlock inhaled. "Manipulative."

"I learned from the best."

Sherlock considered, looking over his shoulder into the empty hallway behind them. "It is unlikely that my parents will come downstairs. And even less probable that they'd come into the rear living room if they did."

"I knew you'd see reason." John turned back to the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair, undoing half of what he'd done with the gel. "All this grey hair doesn't make any sense, because I feel like a teenager again, sneaking around with a date behind my parents' backs."

Sherlock stepped close again and curled his right fist on John's shoulder, feeling the warm, slightly damp skin beneath his knuckles. "I never did anything like that when I was a teenager."

"Well, now's your chance." John raised his shoulder and tipped his head to kiss Sherlock's hand, and they moved together out of the small bathroom. A glance at each other as they passed the door to the master bedroom and they both shook their heads. _No._ Better a three-decades-old sofa bed than the one his parents slept on every night.

Their temporary bedroom adjoined both the kitchen and the hallway, but there were doors to close off the entrances, and curtains to draw over the large window Stone had been so enamoured of. The dog looked up briefly when they came into the room, then re-settled himself on his new cushion, the picture of a spoiled pet.

Sherlock tossed aside the sofa's cushions, then grabbed the metal bar to unfold the bed. When he had it pulled out all the way, John leaned forward and pushed down on the mattress with both hands. "It'll do. I've slept on worse."

Sherlock sat down gingerly on the edge and began to unbutton his shirt. He could feel the springs beneath him, just as he'd expected. "I thought this sofa was the coolest thing when I was a kid. When I was ten, Mummy and Daddy hosted a huge family reunion. It lasted for three days, and my cousin Nicholas and I got to sleep in here because we were the youngest. Doesn't seem nearly as exciting now." 

John raised both eyebrows at him. "I think we can make it be even more fun than it was back then. You'll need to be quieter than normal, though. Think you can manage that?"

"Me?" Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not the one who likes to moan in pain. And anyway, Daddy's got his hearing aids out by now, and I would bet money that Mummy's taken a tranquilizer to relax after having to deal with Mrs. Hudson all day."

"Why don't they like each other?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," he said, watching as John started to tuck a sheet around the mattress on the far side of the bed. "Mummy thinks Mrs. Hudson isn't good enough to be a substitute parental figure for me, and Mrs. Hudson thinks that Mummy is responsible for every bad thing I've ever done in my life. As if I haven't been capable of making my own poor life choices since I was a toddler."

"Plus, you play the two of them against each other. Get up so I can make up the bed."

Sherlock shrugged and stood up. "What else is there to do around here for entertainment?"

"Take the rest of your clothes off and I'll show you."

Sherlock did as directed, waiting for John to finish making the bed and get into it before slipping in next to him. The mattress felt better already.

John pulled him into a kiss immediately, which Sherlock reciprocated enthusiastically, although when it ended he leaned back for a moment. "I didn't bring your pills. I didn't forget. I just—"

"Shh." John cut him off, bringing a finger to Sherlock's lips. "I don't need a pill, especially not if you're willing to be a little rough."

"Rough and quiet? You're asking for a lot." He pushed aside John's finger with his chin, and leaned in for another kiss, deeper this time, letting his hands fall below their waists. They were both naked but for their pants, and his instinct was to pull his own pants off, then John's, but— "Okay, those doors don't lock so I'm going to need us both to stay beneath the sheets. Just in case."

They rearranged themselves so they were side-by-side on their backs, the floral bedsheet Sherlock recalled from his childhood covering them both to mid-chest. "I didn't bring any lube, either. Didn't think we'd need it."

"Plenty of other options." John pushed the sheet down enough to fiddle with his own nipple ring; Sherlock didn't think he was even aware that he was doing it. "Probably best if we just masturbate, though. That's easiest to stop quickly if the door opens."

"You are such a romantic, John Watson," Sherlock said, and slithered out of his pants while still beneath the sheet. 

John worked his own pants down to his thighs, then shifted his upper body so they were touching at the shoulder. He turned his head to kiss along Sherlock's bicep. "Let's do it to each other. I don't—"

"I know," Sherlock said. John sometimes got frustrated when he wasn't able to bring himself to orgasm as quickly as he could before, so it usually worked out better if Sherlock was the one to get him off. _Not a hardship for me at all._ He turned on his side toward him, so they could reach each other more easily.

"Hang on," John said, and started to turn as well.

"You don't have to—"

"Shh," John said, and finished manoeuvring himself into position so they were facing each other. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock scooted his lower half closer and slung his left leg over John's. John didn't love having his legs touched, but Sherlock wanted as much contact between their bodies as possible.

"Mm." John slid his hands down Sherlock's body and Sherlock stopped trying to figure out the best way for them to touch each other. John's fingers stroked across Sherlock's thigh, his touch light enough that it was verging on ticklish. "Are you sure you can be quiet? Wouldn't want to disturb your parents or Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm sure," he said, just as John's hand moved further, slipping across his inner thigh to his bollocks, hitting the perfect balance between firm and gentle. Sherlock tried and failed not to moan as his cock began to stir above John's hand.

"Shh," John said again, voice low. "You can't make any sounds."

"Don't worry," Sherlock whispered. "I can regulate my volume."

"Mm-hmm. Of course you can. Kiss me," he said, and when Sherlock did, John switched his hands so his right was on Sherlock's cock and his left was in his hair. He held Sherlock's head in place while he teased his mouth open with his tongue. Sherlock let his jaw go slack, ceding control of the kiss to John, who took his time with it, his hand slowly moving between Sherlock's legs even as his tongue picked up its rhythm. After several minutes, John gave a particularly deep thrust of his tongue just as he tightened his hand while on the upstroke along Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock moaned, but not loudly, and the sound was further muffled by the fact that John's mouth was over his at the time. Still, John pulled back from the kiss, letting go of Sherlock's hair. "You have to be quiet, remember."

"I am," Sherlock said, leaning forward to chase after John's mouth.

"You are," John agreed. "But what if I do this?" He brought his mouth to Sherlock's again, this time coordinating his tongue's movements with those of his right hand, while his left hand fondled Sherlock's balls, occasionally reaching back further to stroke between his cheeks.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, when John paused to take a breath.

"Yes, you can be quiet, or yes, keep doing that?"

"Keep doing it." He could almost understand John's new predilection for pain; though what John was doing to him wasn't painful, the teasing of his fingers around his arse and the effort Sherlock had to expend not to vocalise as loudly as he wanted to were an exquisite type of torture. "More, more. John, please."

"Okay, as long as you think you can handle it. Wouldn't want you to wake anyone up shouting my name or anything."

Sherlock gritted his teeth together, holding back his natural inclination to reply to everything. He wanted to laugh, too, at how pleased John was with himself, as he taunted and teased and stimulated him. "Keep going," he said, making his voice soft but deeper than normal, knowing John was as likely to be unable to control his reactions as he himself was. He squirmed so he could reach down and take John in hand, a quick meeting of eyes confirming that John welcomed his touch.

Sherlock was far enough gone that it was hard to concentrate on what he was doing to John, but he kept his hand moving, feeling John stiffen beneath his fingers as they moved together for another deep kiss. He dug the nails of his left hand, short as they were, into John's shoulder, which made John break off the kiss with a moan. "Shh," Sherlock whispered.

John opened his eyes to glare at him, then tightened his hand around Sherlock's cock and began to move faster. "You can't do it. You can't be quiet, I know you can't."

"Can," Sherlock gasped.

"Prove it." John moved his mouth from Sherlock's lips to his ear, licking and tugging gently at the lobe with his teeth, as his hand moved ever faster. He kissed his way down to Sherlock's neck, murmuring still. "I want to see you come without saying a word. Without making a noise that anyone could hear outside of this bed. I want you so quiet the dog doesn't even wake up. Show me you can do it."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He had no particular fetish for being quiet, obviously, but John turning it into a challenge ignited his lust even more. It wasn't easy, he had to admit. He'd been quiet in Lestrade's office, but he hadn't been this far along, and this full-body contact was much more arousing than a simple blow job. He knew of one way to shut himself up, though.

He shifted slightly so he could reach John's shoulder with his mouth—he would have gone for his nipple but he didn't want John's hand to lose contact with his cock—and clamped down with his teeth on the thick muscle that ran from his neck. John gasped into Sherlock's hair and his hand faltered for a minute, then resumed. "Yes, yes," he hissed. "Come on, Sherlock. No talking, just bite me, oh. Hard, yes. Sherlock, please please please...." John's entreaties trailed off into a low whine, and Sherlock pumped his hips in time with John's hand on his cock. John flicked his thumb over the tip with every upstroke, and Sherlock knew he was going to come soon. He eased off on John's shoulder briefly, gasping for breath, then bit down again, a small, hard nip that made John whimper.

The noise, though still quiet by their usual standards, went straight to Sherlock's already straining cock. "Oh," he said, as softly as he could manage. "Oh." He closed his mouth and pressed it against the spot he'd just bitten, and John's hands moved in response, the right stroking long and firm while one finger on his left hand again delved between Sherlock's cheeks, pressing where the skin was so sensitised he almost let out a shout. Instead he ground his teeth together and thrust up against John's hand, letting his control go as he shuddered through a climax.

John exhaled through clenched teeth as his right hand slowed and then stilled. "Very good. Shouldn't have doubted you," he whispered. "Quiet as a mouse."

_Hardly._ Sherlock grinned in satisfaction anyway. There was a large wet spot on the bed between their waists, but he ignored it. "Your turn," he growled, before John could decide he didn't need to finish himself. He'd stayed hard beneath Sherlock's hand, even when Sherlock had got too caught up in his own pleasure to do more than just hold his cock, so now Sherlock picked up where he'd left off, stroking him. John couldn't feel it directly, but Sherlock knew from experimentation the exact amount of pressure to make his cock best respond. He squirmed his hips back slightly, so his mouth was lined up lower than it had been. _Not his shoulder—time to put that ring to use._ He blew a few breaths toward it and John's nipple began to pebble around the ring, though he clearly wasn't cold.

"God." John brought his right hand up, dribbling Sherlock's come along the way. "Sorry, sorry." He grabbed the edge of the sheet to wipe his hand.

Sherlock pushed away the thought of his mother having to clean the sheets. He ran his free hand through the puddles he had left on the bed, collecting as much of it as he could, and used it to trace circles on John's chest, first around the pierced nipple and then around the other. After a few moments, he pinched the unpierced one, hard, and brought his lips down on the one with the ring, sucking the metal into his mouth.

John cried out, his head arching back, and Sherlock didn't bother telling him to be quiet. He let the ring slide out of his mouth so he could raise his head enough to see John's expression. _Beautiful._ They were both breathing heavily, and John's eyes were almost but not quite closed. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him and let go of his cock for a moment. "Lie on your back for me?"

"Yeah," John panted. "Yeah." He twisted his upper body away from Sherlock, the muscles of his torso rippling with the effort of turning onto his back. His legs landed slightly askew and Sherlock resisted the urge to straighten them for him. Instead he slung his own leg over John's thighs, straddling him so he could keep up his ministrations on both his cock and chest. He tried to keep the sheet pulled up over his own arse at least, though if anyone opened the door now it probably wouldn't matter if they saw bare skin or not.

His own cock, now mostly soft, bobbed between John's upper thighs as he worked, holding himself up on his knees and one elbow. He moved his hand automatically between John's legs, while using more creativity on his nipples. The left one, with the ring, didn't get as erect as the unpierced one did, but he knew the ring enhanced what John felt. He'd never had particularly sensitive nipples before he'd been hurt, but now this was one of his favourite things. Sherlock expected he'd have the other one pierced before the year was up—he had his own ideas about things they could do with chains, then.

At first, he only tugged lightly at the ring with his lips, enjoying each small huff of breath the movement elicited. He flicked at John's right nipple with one finger, keeping his hand and mouth out of sync, so John didn't relax into a pattern but was continually surprised. When he felt John's cock start to leak, he pulled the ring further into his mouth with his tongue, careful not to let the ball that closed the loop pop out. He pinched at his right nipple again, and twisted it as hard as he dared, which was just hard enough to produce a lovely whining sound that made his own cock twitch in response. He let go of the ring and moved up for a quick, rough kiss, then slipped off John to lie on his side next to him again, so he could bring both hands down between John's legs.

John's eyes cut down to follow the motion. "Not too much."

"I won't." He knew John was uncomfortable if Sherlock's hands went anywhere he couldn't see, but he also knew that even though messages couldn't travel up from his cock through his spinal cord to his brain, the nerves between his cock and everything else below the waist could still communicate just fine. Which meant every firm stroke he made across John's perineum brought him that much closer to completion.

John turned his head for another kiss, shoving his left hand into Sherlock's hair as he pulled him close. His fingers caught in the curls, a bit uncomfortably, but Sherlock wasn't about to say anything that might dampen the mood now. He shoved his tongue into John's mouth, filling it, and John's hands slid down his back, digging in just above his waist. After a few moments, John drew back from the kiss, turning his head to speak, "Please. Please."

"What? You want more of this?" Sherlock brought one hand up again and lowered his mouth to John's chest. He was on John's right side now, so he closed his teeth on the flesh around the unpierced nipple while he played with the ring with his fingers.

"Fuck, yes, fuck." John tipped his head back on the pillow and lifted his chest toward Sherlock.

Sherlock released him from the bite to reprimand him. "Language. What if my mother heard you?"

"Don't care." John's hands were in Sherlock's hair again, urging his head back toward his chest.

Sherlock obliged with some slow licking while he tugged at the ring and kept up a hard, fast pace on his cock. His hand was slick, now, and getting wetter with each stroke; he knew it wouldn't be long before John came. "You made me be quiet, but I want to make you scream." He pinched John's nipple between his teeth again, flicking at its tip with his tongue, and twisted the ring at the same time.

John didn't scream, but he let out a pained groan, its pitch rising at the end, which Sherlock found just as satisfying. He let go of the ring and brought his hand down low again, running his fingertips roughly across John's inner thigh, stopping only to dig his nails into the small spot where he knew John had some lingering sensation. John winced and raised his own hand to his nipple, pulling at the ring himself. "God. Jesus. God. Yes. Yes. Sherlock." His face contorted even more as his cock began to spurt. Sherlock slowed his hand and then stopped as John lay catching his breath, his right hand still curled over his piercing. Sherlock stretched across his chest to drop a quick kiss on his knuckles, then settled back down against his side.

"Ah," said John. "Good. That was good."

"Was it?" Sherlock wriggled against him, trying to find a comfortable spot on the thin mattress. "Is that why you kept shouting 'God'? Or are you planning to go to church with my father if we're still here come Sunday?"

"Shut up," John said.

"God. Jesus. God," Sherlock repeated.

"You are such a dickhead." John hit him in the ribs with the back of his hand and Sherlock laughed and rolled away from him. The mattress dipped threateningly as he moved across it.

"We should do that more often," John said.

"Yes. Though, maybe not here in this particular location," Sherlock replied, stretching out on his back. He could feel at least three distinct springs digging into various parts of his body. "But what you said the other day about how an orgasm helps me when I'm stuck on a difficult case was right."

"Really? Did you figure out how to catch Moriarty?"

"No. But I just don't care at the moment." Even the last traces of the panic he'd felt when he'd feared John had been caught in an explosion this morning were gone. He reached down and grabbed John's hand, pulling it toward him so both their arms rested on his chest. "It's a brilliant feeling."

John laughed. "It is, isn't it? You know, you don't always need me to make you feel that way."

Sherlock turned his head toward him, frowning.

"It's just that I'm pretty sure that you haven't masturbated in about a year and a half."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock let go of his hand and sat up a bit, leaning on the pillow propped against the sofa back.

"Have you?"

"I—I don't know." _Twice, once when you were at work and once when you had a basketball game._ "It's not the sort of thing I keep track of."

"You used to do it more. We both did. You don't have to stop just because I don't bother with it anymore."

"But...I don't want to."

"I don't actually believe that. I know we don't—" He waved his hand between the two of them. "Do this as often as we used to, and I'm guessing that's not going to change—"

"It can," Sherlock said.

"No, it's all right. I just don't have the same sex drive I used to, and it takes a long time and it's always a big production if I want to come, but you—nothing's changed with you. You can still have a quick wank whenever you want, and you should."

"I just said I don't want to."

"Why not?"

Sherlock chewed at the inside of his lip. "I can't."

"I don't understand. Are you having...physical problems?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and sighed. This wasn't something he'd really intended to ever talk to John about, but he didn't see a good way to get out of the conversation now. "I can't because. Because I think about you when I do it, obviously." He sighed again. "And sometimes, when I get far enough along, I lose control of my thoughts and I...I picture you doing things you can't do anymore." _Okay, I definitely should not have said that out loud._

John was silent for a moment, then said, "You fantasise about me not being paralysed."

"I wouldn't call it fantasising, no. But, yes."

There was another pause, and Sherlock wished he could jump back sixty seconds in time and take it all back, but then John spoke. "It's okay," he said. "So do I. I mean sexually, non-sexually, all the time, really. That's how I think about myself all the time. It's definitely fantasising. It's okay."

"It doesn't feel okay."

"No. I know. But it what it is. Come here." He pulled on Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock let himself be tipped over toward him, realising a moment too late that John hadn't wiped his stomach and chest off yet.

Sherlock's elbow landed in a patch of cooling ejaculate. He jerked away, laughing in spite of himself. "Oh, God. Disgusting. Clean yourself up." He reached down to grab the sheet that had been covering them earlier, and pulled at the hem of it until he found a spot that seemed dry.

John took the sheet and wiped himself up, then let his head drop back on the pillow. "Remind me to disinfect my nipple in the morning."

"I love you, too," Sherlock said, letting his head rest on the edge of John's chest. He could feel John's lips brush his hair in response, acknowledging that he understood Sherlock meant the words seriously despite their delivery. He closed his eyes and stretched his arm across John's chest, ignoring the fact that it was still a bit sticky. He could put up with a lot more than that, as long as the two of them were together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a 221B ficlet that's set in this universe if anyone is interested--it takes place after this story, when Sherlock and John go on holiday with the Holmes family. [Let's Go on a Family Holiday (& Then Not Leave the Room)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449838)

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [Tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/missdaviswrites)! I'm MissDavisWrites in both places.


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